


Firebreather

by TheFire_in_the_NightSky



Series: Dum Spiro Spero [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angst with a Happy Ending, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Consensual Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Magical Accidents, Magical Bond, Magicplay, Minor Character Death, No One is Perfect in This Fic Series, Panic Attacks, Past Lavellan/Lavellan, Plot Twists, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reluctant Inquisitor, everyone's a mess, no love triangles, past Cullen/Lavellan - Freeform, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 68,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFire_in_the_NightSky/pseuds/TheFire_in_the_NightSky
Summary: fire-breatherOne who is intensely and aggressively passionate, and fiercely determined. Likened to a dragon or other beast able to shoot streams of fire from its mouth.Felan is a man haunted & hunted by the ghosts of his past, the mistakes he has denied himself forgiveness for. Twisted serendipity has led him down a path he wishes he could turn his back on, and it's left him with an eerie, glowing scar upon his palm that might be slowly killing him, and a role no elf could be meant for. The heavy millstone around his neck that comes with his new title is akin to the very thing he’d run from two years prior. Dorian doesn’t necessarily believe in fate, just simple chains of coincidence or mistakes. He does however, believe in the Inquisitor, no matter how unfit for the job or broken the heroic elf thinks he is…and no matter the strong, misplaced affections Dorian’s begun harbouring for him. Now mistakes, oh yes, he’s making about a hundred per one good, chivalrous act since joining up with the Inquisition - one in particular that could threaten the tenuous relationship he’s built with Felan, but more importantly, both their lives.*The main story to Dum Spiro Spero.





	1. Prologue: Sinking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Your flavour in my mind swings back and forth between -  
> sweeter than any wine, and as bitter as mustard greens;  
> and as light and dark as honeydew and pumpernickel bread.  
> The trap I set for you seems to have caught my leg, instead.”
> 
>  
> 
> -Takes place after Dorian and the Inquisitor go to Redcliffe and speak with Halward Pavus-  
> *Quickly edited, so I apologise for any mistakes!

The strong bouquet of time-worn, leather-bound paper, musty parchment, and Leliana’s ravens (surely perched somewhere above, if the echoing whisper of feathers along flapping wings were any indication) felt like spirits painting the spiral of the rotunda.  But the lesser, ghostly impression of heavenly scented oils and hair wax were what triggered Felan’s senses into realisation that _he_ was _not_ present.  

Without a sidewards glance, for he did not want to appear _too_ eager, Felan made his way passed the cozy nook that now housed a lonely armchair encased in dwindling candlelight.  Thankful for his fast recovery skills, Felan decided to “busy” himself (and distract from his own disappointment) by pretending to search for something on the nearby writing desk, nodding as he did so to those few that still lingered here within these tome-carved walls.  It was no secret the Inquisitor was often seen conversing or sitting with the ‘Vint’ up here - Dorian generously trying to help Felan brush up on his reading of the common tongue - but he didn’t need anyone taking note of the longing in his eyes like some sad, lost mabari pup… Well, not until Felan figured out exactly what was going on in his head.

Continuing his quiet rifling through a few scattered papers, his nonchalance came to a stuttered halt when he came across two separate letters that were apparently _supposed to be_ written to Halward Pavus.   _Uh oh._

Gone was the lovely, flowing script he’d become accustomed to seeing from Dorian in mission reports or requests.  Instead, Felan’s eyes and fingertips found the indentations of angry, black scrawls - some written half in what he assumed was Tevene - and even more just scribbled out so violently, it was clear the quill sliced right through the paper and notched the wooden desk beneath.  As he let a fingernail pick at the notched mahogany, he spied a crumpled piece of paper hidden between the leg of the large desk chair and the side of a bookshelf. Felan’s eyes darted up and around the rotunda to be sure no one was looking, before he quickly crouched down to pluck up the ugly little wad of discarded words.  

The penmanship was shaky, but much more like his friend’s usual writing.  Felan tried desperately to sound out the words in his head, and with what he could make out, it had his heart sinking in empathy.

“Ah, Inquisitor, looking for the Pavus boy?”

Felan nearly fell into the large chair beside him in a jumble of limbs as he registered Fiona walking towards him, all calming smiles despite her stealthy approach making him very much feel as if his soul was just sent to the Fade and back… again.

“Void, woman!  Did you ever moonlight as a rogue in your freetime?”

The older elf just gave him a soothing chuckle, “I am afraid, despite seemingly scaring the wits out of you, I’d truly be no capable assassin such as someone like yourself, Inquisitor.  Is everything alright?”

Before she could notice, Felan had crushed the unfinished letter back into its crumpled form and let it fall silently from his grasp beneath the desk as they spoke.  A raven cawed in offence of their voices from above, and Felan glanced upward as he huffed a silvery shock of hair from his left eye.

 _“Yes,_ just seeing if perhaps Dorian had finished his summary from our last little errand in the Exalted Plains.  ...Feeling a little restless is all, I suppose. I, ah, should really be going, though.”

With his hands clasped behind his back, Felan nodded a hasty goodnight to the older elven woman and made to retreat via the staircase behind him.  But as he turned to leave, his attention was seized one last time. He politely tilted his head over his shoulder to better hear Fiona’s voice as he stopped at the top of the stairs.

“Perhaps a jaunt around the grounds will help you sleep; some fresh air, mm?”

Felan didn’t need to turn around fully, as he heard the knowing smile in the former Grand Enchanter’s voice just fine when she continued a little more softly, “He is in the gardens, last I knew.  Said he… needed to clear his head. _...Go to him,_ Felan.  Remember, we must seize opportunities... while we have the time.”

Felan knew he just barely hid the shy, _but grateful,_ grin that quickly crept across his face as he tried to quickly turn his head towards the stone staircase once more.

“...Thank you, Fiona.”

 

Breathing in cool mountain air, Felan sensed rain on the shifting breeze which helped usher in the almost non-existent nighttime sounds.  Somehow, he swore, this fortress created its own strange weather patterns on a whim. He’d rooted himself in between two tall, wrought-iron candelabras; a narrow shadow mingling with the warm tremble of candlelight against stone.  Felan quieted his breathing when he spotted _him,_ and watched, _studied._  It felt slightly wrong, but hidden like this, Felan hushed his guilt as he took in the slouched form seated on a bench near the gazebo less than fifty feet away from him.  Dorian’s legs were crossed at the ankle, propped up on the adjacent bench. He wore a deep brown, sleeveless leather tunic that bore much less strappy contraptions and metal adornments than his usual attire.  And he looked… relaxed; if Felan didn’t have his elven night-vision to rely on, he’d swear the man was asleep. But Felan knew better: his friend didn’t sleep much, and he too knew that worriment. A heavy mind did not at all mean a peaceful sink beneath the waves of dreams.  And what with all they dealt with, separately and together, it was no small wonder any of Felan’s companions slept at all.

When Dorian shifted and brought an aggravated hand through his hair, Felan sucked in a breath to bolster him for his walk across the gardens.  He’d had enough with waiting.

Felan lent a different type of weight than usual to each purposeful step, wanting this time to be surely heard by his target.  The touch of awkwardness that lingered from adjusting to boot-clad feet certainly helped matters; Dorian’s human ears picked up on Felan’s “unique” stride almost immediately.

“You should be sleeping, _Inquisitor.”_

“Don’t make me mirror your chiding, because I don’t have the energy for it.”

Felan plopped down right beside Dorian without any hesitance, personal space forgone between the two of them for some time now.

“Too tired for admonishments, and yet, _here you are,_ wide awake.  Do tell what is keeping your mind so _occupied._ Perhaps I can distract myself with someone else’s worries.”

Dorian let his legs slide off the other bench with an impatient huff, and crossed his arms tightly, _protectively,_ over his ribcage.  Felan frowned internally at the fact that his gaze was not yet fully met by his dear friend.

“I was looking for you-”

 _“Me?_  Well,”  Dorian made a grand gesture with his arms just then, sweeping them over his seated form, “here I am, Inquisitor!”

“Dorian.  I wanted to make sure you were alright, see if you wanted to talk about… well...   _Are you…_ alright?”  Felan let his pale blue eyes do more of the pleading than his words when Dorian finally turned to face him, albeit briefly.

“Oh, _very much ‘alright.’"_ Dorian scoffed and snapped his jaw shut as he let his eyes flick anywhere but Felan’s face.  

 _“Dorian._ Please, you know you don’t have to hide away from me.   _Are you alright?”_

Dorian pinned Felan from the corner of his eye, brows furrowed at his exhausting concern.  He let the muscles in his jaw clench and unclench like a stubborn beartrap, unwilling to open, despite any desperate prodding.  But, that only caused his friend to snap at him.

_“Talk.”_

He scowled, annoyed, but Felan scowled right back at Dorian, tenfold.

 _“Oh, come off it!_ You look as though you’re about to morph into our _dear, sweet_ Mother Giselle at any moment and give me the most _understanding_ of lectures about what I _should_ or _shouldn’t_ be doing.   _Fine._  I’m fucking irritated, is what I am.”

“Still over your father, I take it?”

“No, the bloody moon looked at me wrong...”

Rolling his eyes at the unamused, pressing look Felan shot his way at the use of sarcasm, Dorian continued, “I feel… I feel _lost at sea,_ Felan.  And we all know how much I do just love the Maker-forsaken-sea…!”  Dorian sighed, then, more quietly, “Seeing my father, talking to him again, I felt all at once like I was sinking again, with no back-up plan besides jump, or surrender and go down with the ship.  ...Perhaps I have always been sinking… _the fool I am.”_

Felan frowned at the defeat he heard in Dorian’s voice.  He wanted to gather him up in his arms and tell him that _he_ accepted every ounce of who Dorian was, that he…  Instead, Felan only squeezed his friend’s shoulder lightly.

A pained laugh barely worked its way up from Dorian’s chest before he spoke again, “How _dare I_ not want to spend the rest of my life screaming on the inside?  Hmph. _”_

The corner of Felan’s mouth quirked up, “Perhaps you should just learn how to swim,” he stated plainly.  That earned him a smile, at least.

“Oh, don’t go ruining my… flowery metaphors and wallowing with your… your Inquisitorial, sage advice, now.”

Felan picked up on the first hints of a slur in the Tevinter’s musical accent.

“Dorian, please tell me you didn’t nick another bottle of vintage from the cellars to drown your sorrows in.”

Dorian laughed bitterly, and bowed his head towards the hands he had steepled on his knees, “Oh no, some charming, handsome elf sought to ruin my merriment with his concerned voice echoing in my head.  You’re like a damnable little angel perched on my shoulder; whispering good thoughts, sometimes... you know that? It’s no fun at all. Ought to just flick you right off,” and the man made dramatic show of demonstrating just that, ”I had… less than a bottle tonight, _happy?”_   

“Maybe.  Yes,” Felan smirked, “And perhaps you’d prefer I start whispering _bad_ thoughts to your conscience?”

“That could certainly prove mountains more entertaining, _Inquisitor._ But that would also depend on your definition of _bad._ Our ideas of naughty, hushed murmurings could prove wildly different.”

_“Oh?  Try me.”_

Oh, Creators preserve him, Felan took the bait, didn’t he?  Stupid, stupid, _stupid._  He and Dorian had toed the line between friendly, innocent flirting and _so much more_ for over a few months now, and by the Void, Felan’s idiotic courage had him jumping right off that precipice without so much as a glance down to be sure he had a soft spot to land.

He swallowed down a thick, nervous lump in his throat as his heart fluttered when honeyed, grey eyes met his own blue-silver.  Felan let his sight line up to full lips beneath the partial frame of a pristine moustache for… far too long, he gathered. Those same lips parted on a rough exhale, and he flicked his gaze upward and over the utterly _crushed_ expression across Dorian’s face.

“Inquis- _Fae,_ what do you see when you look at me?  Maker knows what, after that congenial little family reunion you unfortunately bore witness to...”

“Hmm… Besides charm, wit, and impeccable fashion sense?”

“Ah, and devilishly handsome good looks, let’s not forget!”

They shared a quiet laugh before Felan bumped their shoulders, reassuringly, “I see a very brave man who struggles day in, and day out against assumptions that might taint his true character.  A man who wants to do _such good_ in the name of his homeland, despite the evil pouring forth from it, a man who wants to save his countrymen from further history of wrongdoings, even if his voice is the only one in a crowd of unwavering sameness.  I see… someone not truly unafraid to be who he really is inside despite showy vanity; I see walls… I see… _deflection._ And I see a man who is tired of being alone in this ugly, beautiful world.”  Felan smirked over at Dorian.

 _“Kaffas._ The _things_ you say…”

“It isn’t bad, Dorian. I- “

“Oh no, only the parts where you make me out to be a prickly, codependent, narcissist.”

 _Well.  This was going swimmingly,_ Felan thought, frustrated.  Without smarts, and without hesitance, Felan smoothed his left hand over Dorian’s right, the Mark tingling in response to the magic pooling beneath Dorian's bronze skin.  Felan sensed something else, too; the nascent pull to this man that was _finally_ more than a quiet, glowing ember -  like dry kindling first set alight - yearning to flicker into something more… something bigger, _brighter._ Perhaps it was a flame they’d been stoking for far longer than either man would admit to.

 _“Dorian._ I don’t exactly belong anymore than you do… And, you know I’ve lost in ways, too.”

“Ah… forgive me… _that_ you have.  I apologise.”

“You still have a home to go back to, even if it isn’t with your family.  If I left all this behind right now, I… I don’t know where I’d be able to go.  I never truly fit in with my clan, I suppose, but... at least _it was home._ And you could never truly feel lonely there.  But I left that long ago, and...  We… that is, I…”

Dark, slightly manicured brows shot up Dorian’s forehead as he ogled the stuttering elf, “Mm... cat got your tongue, as they say?”

Felan narrowed his eyes with a silent “hmph” and let his usually squared shoulders slump forward in defeat of his emotions.  This was part of why he sought out his friend to begin with, wasn’t it?

“Dorian… I want you- No,  _need you_ by my side.  You and I, we don’t _have to_ be alone in all… _this.”_   _You always make me feel less lonely,_ is what Felan bit back.  He sucked in a startled breath when Dorian turned his hand over, so they were calloused palm-to-slightly-calloused palm.  Felan counted his lucky stars his friend was completely gloveless tonight, relishing in the warmth radiating from his quaking fingertips.  They both stared downward at the contact, shocked by it even, perhaps. Then Dorian let the tips of his fingers trail the sides of Felan’s own - slow, _slow;_  the ghosting caress of a grasp, but also not yet willing to let go completely.  

“This flirting business has been all well and good for some time now… But, _Andraste’s arse,_ Fae… say what you _mean,_ man!” Dorian's voice pushed out in a loud whisper as he stilled his fingers back to a tremble.

Felan dropped his head and dragged his hand away from Dorian’s.  He regretted the loss of contact, immediately.  In the time he’d known him, grown to befriend him, Dorian had been Felan’s grounding lightning rod, and perhaps because of that, it was too much to expect the Tevinter to feel anything more than shallow attraction… because, after all, what was _Felan_ to Dorian besides a friend, comrade, and leader?  What was he really?

A terse, frustrated laugh escaped Felan as he stared down at his hands in his lap, thoughts roiling over his own avoidance of eye-contact, “What can I say that won’t just sound like pathetic poetry from a bleeding heart?”

And no sooner did that last consonant leave Felan’s mouth, did he feel hands - such very urgent, warm hands - hug his chin and jaw, and turn his face roughly - almost, _almost_ too roughly - bringing him so _near._  But just as suddenly, it was like a bonfire being drowned out by a trouncing of sand; Dorian let their mouths hover, less than a hairsbreadth apart.  Felan could _feel_ the mutual strain upon their resolve to hold on, just seconds more.  Exhale. _Just wait._ Inhale.   _What was he doing?_

Lips brushed his in a movement that was no more than a tingling mimic of touch as Dorian pleaded in a hushed whisper against the elven assassin’s mouth, _“Say it.  Tell me.”_

“...You mean something to me, Dorian.  You mean more than your powers, your ingenuity, your connections; your name and status.  Stop living in Tevinter’s shadow, _your father’s shadow._ I don’t see what they do,” Mythal preserve him, Felan felt like his lungs were going to collapse if he continued at this intimate proximity to Dorian’s mouth, but he soldiered on, like he always did, _“I see more.”_

Dorian moved a thumb along the brick-red line that bisected Felan’s bottom lip, “Fae. _Please.”_

In response to the touch, Felan put a minute bit of distance between them, and let his eyes flutter open to scan Dorian's face.  Creators, his friend looked so fractured, so pained. He hated the constant scaling of Dorian’s sometimes immeasurable emotional walls, but then there were times, most recently, where seeing him _so vulnerable_ ripped open some empathetic fissure inside Felan.

“I want to close your wounds, _help,_ at least… if you’ll let me.  I want more than this childish back-and-forth, because _you’re worth it to me._ And I want to prove that, _make you see what they failed to.  What they all failed to, Dorian…”_

And then everything went a little hazy.  He wasn’t sure what happened first, their lips meeting, or him melting into Dorian’s lap, but Felan’s senses finally pinpointed to the pinch of dry lips trapped against teeth.  Their heads tilted, mouths now moving with the ease of slick saliva from tentative tongues.

Following on the heels of both their throaty groans, Felan dug his fingers into cropped, black tresses, mumbling, _“You’re worth everything…”_ against Dorian’s mouth over and over, like the reassuring mantra he could only hope it would be.

Dorian hugged Felan to him, one hand splayed across the black, muted jacquard fabric at his lower back, the other in a constant slide of movement, from cupping the junction of Felan’s jaw and neck, then down again to the top of his shoulder - as if Dorian couldn’t make up his mind about where he wanted to touch.  And Maker, _perhaps he couldn’t._ His emotions were funneling into his chest like some hellish, foaming whirlpool; then parrying against themselves in one swift motion, much like Felan’s daggers:   _Oh, how I’ve wanted this for far too long,_ and then, _but you know you don’t deserve him.  You know you were never meant to have_ **_this_ ** _._ And of course, there was also a healthy dash of, _What will everyone say?  No one will take him seriously anymore.  You’ll ruin him and everything he’s worked towards, you selfish arse._

And then, _rain._ Brilliant.  Felan was first to pull away, but only slightly.  His hands still clutched Dorian’s face as he _finally_ had the courage to search his friend’s eyes for even a speck of what he was _actually_ feeling.

“I think, perhaps this is a sign,” Dorian breathed.

“That we should move this indoors?”

Dorian smiled, but it did not meet his eyes - eyes that wavered, then traveled down to where their hips met; which only caused his head to turn away from Felan completely, “This isn’t a good idea.   _You know that.”_

“Really?  Dorian Pavus, worried about what the lowly people within these stone walls will think?”

 _“Oh, perish the thought!_ I believe we’ve already set more than a few tongues wagging before now.  But seriously, Felan… If I’m… _truthful,_ I am more worried about what they’d have to say about _you,_ than myself.”

“Well, you’re lucky then, because I don’t care.  I didn’t want _this,”_  Felan lifts his left hand away from Dorian’s jaw in punctuation of what he’d meant, “I didn’t want to be their bloody _Herald of Andraste_ either, and I would more than love to be stripped of my current title if it meant I could help without being seen.”

“Yes, you’re usually quite good at that on the field, aren’t you?  The whole stealthy, not being seen bit.” He let both of his hands run up and down the length of Felan’s back, a calming affectation in lieu of what he could just not seem to voice.

The rising, thick sound of rain pelting on centuries-old stone gnawed at Felan's thinning patience.  He moved against Dorian one last time to bring their mouths together, testing the Tevinter. Dorian gave in, all too willingly.  

“Either we find shelter over _there,”_ Felan tossed his head towards the gazebo nearby, the motion flinging dampening white locks across the vallaslin that spanned his forehead, _“or_ you could follow me to my chambers...  Your choice. But I’d very much like to take hold of something _I_ have wanted for my _own,_ for once.”

With that said, Felan attempted to remove himself from Dorian’s lap, but let out a quiet, little gasp at Dorian suddenly slotting their hips together - closer, _tighter -_ fingers digging into his narrow hips.  Dorian then brought the ring-gilded fingers of his right hand up to Felan’s face to delicately smooth back the wet strands from his brow.  

 _“Then by all means,_ **_take_ ** _, Inquisitor.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title inspired by the song of the same name by The Cure.
> 
> Ugh, this is my first full fic about these two, I hope I am doing Dorian justice! When it comes to Pavellan, I've only ever written a poem before. I just absolutely adore them<3 So I had to finally write a full piece!
> 
> And yes, I've retooled a few game-dialogue pieces here and there, blahblah...
> 
> I'm not sure how many chapters this will have yet, we shall see how my inspiration strikes!
> 
> Your comments & kudos are my fuel!


	2. Such a Tender Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a door without a key, a field without a fence.  
> You made a holy fool of me, and I’ve thanked you ever since.  
> And if he comes circling back, we’ll end where we’d begun,  
> like two pennies on a train track: the train crushed into one.  
> Or if I’m a crown without a king, a broken-open seed;  
> if I come without a thing, then I come with all I need.  
> No boat out in the blue, no place to rest your head;  
> the trap I set for you seems to have caught my leg, instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've edited the piss out of this and probably missed something, but I'm just throwing it out here before I become too anal over it... No pun intended, seriously.
> 
> So have this chapter that is almost 7k of filthy smut! :D

They quietly enter the main hall of Skyhold through the side-door from the gardens; bootsoles making tiny, wet-clapping sounds against the stone floor until their footfalls are muffled by the trail of intricate carpeting that leads up to the dais.  

Felan comes to a stop when Dorian disentangles their fingers before they’re even halfway down the cavernous hall; worried about keeping up appearances, _clearly._ But he’s had enough as soon as Dorian’s eager stride becomes one of marked hesitancy.

“Dorian… there’s... no one out here,” the elf finds himself whispering, despite his assurances to the other man.

“Ah, yes.  And then _just_ when you think we’re in the clear, **wham** !  Some ne’er-do-well your _too-kind_ heart has given sanctuary to - drunk on sparkling wine they could _never afford otherwise,_ no doubt - will pop their head out from under a table: ‘Oh messere Lavellan!  Are we fornicating with the evil magister now?! _Sweet Andraste!’”_

Felan has true, sincere concern for Dorian’s worry, but... the man was gesticulating wildly and his voice reaching a loud snarl.  If he didn't calm himself, it was only a matter of time before they _would_ be noticed.  Thinking of a quick way to pacify Dorian, Felan simply snatches the wrist of one dramatically flourishing hand out of the air between them, and lets his palm find the warmth of Dorian’s once again.

“And _thennn,_ I would say, ‘Well, _not yet_ you see, for you are _very rudely interrupting, serah!’”_

“That’s it, mm?  Then, come morning, your lovely Lady Cassandra will order to have this nefarious _Tevinter cur’s_ handsome head served up on a silverite platter!”

 _“Silverite?_  Not gold??” Felan asks in a mock, aghast tone.

Dorian finally smirks at the Inquisitor’s playful tone and quiets. “Ah, true… gold _does_ do wonders for bringing out my complexion…”

“And anyway, Cassandra is a good friend, Dorian.  She’ll trust my judgement. She has so far... even if we don’t see eye-to-eye on everything.  Now, would you like to list out the rest of your pointless woes - I could get a scroll and quill for you if you’d like to write them down, or are you going to finally belt up and come upstairs with me?”

Felan throws a very pointed look at Dorian, then gives his hand an impatient tug, pulling him close; finally smiling when Dorian’s arms are wrapping around his tapered waist.

 _“Well!_  Someone is _persuasive!”_ Dorian yields for now, but just barely.

 It seems it will be harder to break the hold Tevinter has over Dorian than Felan had initially thought.  The opinion the general southern populace had about the Imperium didn’t help matters, nor the fact that much of their fears and disdain were warranted - no small thanks to Corypheus.  

They share a gentle, sweet kiss before Felan continues his efforts in dragging Dorian by the hand towards his chamber door.

  


******

 

They make it all but one set of stairs up before Dorian is shoving Felan against a wall; a hand behind his head protecting against the rough stone.  Felan is about to poke fun at Dorian’s impatience, but is swiftly cut off by a rough kiss. He could still taste the lingering tang, _sweet and dark,_ of whatever wines Dorian had previously procured himself from the dank, cobweb-curtained Skyhold cellars.  Felan gropes for any bit of Dorian’s tunic he can; the leather giving soft creaks beneath his fingertips, but too tight against the mage’s muscled back to actually grab hold of.

Breaking their kiss, Dorian is moved infinitesimally tighter against the hug of Felan’s body by the surprisingly strong hands gripping at his shoulders.

 _“Maker’s breath, Fae…_ Why do you have so many stairs?!  It’s wholly absurd!” Dorian pants.

 _“I don’t know!_  I didn’t build the damned castle!  Trust me, I hate it, too. _Definitely..._ more so in _this_ particular moment, of course.”

 

Without further incident - and managing to _not_ rend the clothing from one another - both men finally make it up to Felan’s sprawling room; tolerably winded from the stolen breaths and stolen kisses alike, upon innumerable stairs.  The Inquisitor immediately begins ridding himself of the Void-forsaken knee-high leather boots he’d been wearing, trying in vain to ignore the amused look from Dorian as he hops a bit on one leg to struggle the last piece of footwear off.  Padding across the room towards the foot of his bed, Felan stops momentarily to enjoy the feel of the plush rug beneath his bare feet.

“So,” Dorian starts, “is this where I use my undue influence over you?  Push my _sinful_ ways upon our _dear_ Inquisitor?”

Felan lets out a small chuckle as the man saunters over with all that maddeningly sexy, Dorian-swagger that he found himself sometimes hating; hatred earned for the way it made him so damn weak-in-the-knees and bloody _distracted._  Dorian grasps Felan’s hip with one hand as he approaches, the other reaching up to push back silvery-white hair from the elf’s tattooed forehead.  With his thumb and forefinger, Dorian gently tilts Felan’s chin up to his mouth, causing his lover to practically _purr_ at the tender touch.  Felan fights desperately against the want to let his eyes drift closed as Dorian strokes the sharp line of his jaw with admiration.

“But our _dear Herald_ is no sinner, is he?” Dorian speaks barely above a whisper, his voice grave, “Pulled from the swirling depths of the Fade by Andraste herself, isn’t that right?”  

“You know I don’t believe, Dorian.  And… _I ‘sin,’ trust me._  Don’t act like I’m some naive Chantry priest to be corrupted. _”_

“Ahh, and what _is_ your greatest sin, Felan?  Gluttony? No, no you’re thinner than a stave!  A _very pretty,_ well-muscled stave, but I digress…”

Not deigning to comment on how staves didn’t have muscles to begin with, Felan still found himself rolling his eyes at the inane comparison, regardless.  He watches Dorian circle, no- _stalk_ around him; ink-stained fingers dancing across his chest and arm as Dorian rounded his left shoulder.  

Felan’s predator continues on, “...Certainly not _greed_ ; you’d give and give until you’ve nothing left if you had the chance.  ...Pride? Hmm, perhaps…? _Wrath?_  Well, unfortunately I believe we’re all a little guilty of that one, these days.  Ooh! Is it, _lust?!_ You definitely don’t have a desire for power, though.  I mean, you disdain-”

Felan breaks into Dorian’s spoken thoughts, _“Envy.”_ It is said with a tinge of guilt that has him wincing self-consciously.  He hears Dorian swallow thickly behind him. And as the man speaks this time, Felan senses soft, little breaths against the pointed tip of his ear.   _Dorian was so, so thankfully near again._

“Oh?  And what is it you are so _envious_ of?”

Vaguely vexed, Felan sighs before answering, “The... people who still have something left to go back to after this, elves that have never felt the sting of being called ‘rabbit,’ ‘knife-ear,’ or any other _shem insult,”_ Felan feels the heavy rasp of emotion constricting against his voice as he continues, “people who are ordinary, who don’t have _fucking glowing, green crags in their hand_ ; people who…”

While glaring down at the offending appendage, the Inquisitor lets his passionate, frustrated words trail off.  He feels like a proper hypocrite wanting his dear friend to step out of the shadows of his homeland, when he himself cannot always prevent his mind from buckling beneath the weight of everything he never asked for.  Feeling Dorian slowly run a hand down his left arm, Felan’s eyes burn with over-emotion. Tears threaten to form when Dorian steals the marked hand in both of his just as he hugs Felan to him. He pries Felan’s clenched fist open with one hand, twining their fingers together with the other.

Felan would be lying to himself if he thought he didn’t find comfort in even the smallest gestures of kindness from Dorian in the time they’d known each other.  That fact was making _this_ all the more meaningful.  Gooseflesh rose across Felan’s neck and shoulder as Dorian lays the lightest of kisses along the gentle curve there - his moustache an unexpected, pleasant tickle against Felan’s skin that has his smile returning.

“You make me want to be a better man, you know that?” Dorian whispers low, “I sort of hate you for it, actually.”

Felan laughs, squeezing Dorian’s hand, “Reallyyy now?”

 _“Oh yes._ All this heroism and gallantry… it’s marvelously contagious!”

Dorian’s lips meet Felan’s neck once more as he murmurs, “On a more… serious note, Fae… if anyone, _anyone_ calls you by one of those _vile slurs_ again, inform me _at once,_ and I’ll be sure the bastard gets a wall of fire straight up his arse.”

 _“Understood.”_ In light of Dorian’s protectiveness, Felan’s voice is rough with want, despite the underlying injection of humour.  He tilts his head to the side, baring the smooth movement of tendons beneath his skin. Dorian kisses and nips his way down his lover’s exposed neck, stopping to suck the tiniest of marks into flesh in tandem with each quiet moan Felan makes.  Felan lifts Dorian’s hand to his chest, just below his throat; _almost_ hesitant to push the mage’s hand upward any further, but _wanting it_ even more, _Mythal preserve him._  Dorian’s open-mouthed kisses along Felan’s neck and jawline become more hungry until they reach his cheek, seemingly seeking out his already parted mouth.

Arching his back against Dorian with a movement that is practically feline in its stretch, Felan lets out a heavy breath and turns his head, their mouths connecting in an instant.  The angle is a little awkward, but even still, a heavy warmth floods Felan’s veins - a feeling not unlike that which comes after swallowing down a healing potion. He pulls away from Dorian and stares into the man’s gloomy-grey eyes with a fiery intensity, knowing he’d see loyalty and trust there, but _needing_ desperately to confirm it.

Dorian barely registers Felan moving the hand he still has planted near the base of the elf’s throat until he feels the sliding ghost movement over a bobbing Adam’s apple.

_“Felan…”_

Dorian’s voice is drenched in a yearning that has Felan capturing his mouth anew, wanting to taste the breath of his name on his lover’s tongue.  Felan pours needy sounds into the kiss as he feels a warm palm stop short, just below his jaw. With a selfish desire to goad Dorian, Felan bites the older man’s bottom lip and _tugs._ Ever intuitive, Dorian responds by doing what he knows Felan _craves:_  applying that delicious pressure to his throat.

With each delicate squeeze of Dorian’s hand, Felan whimpers low in his chest, relishing in the light-headed pleasure; his pulse resounding in his ears like a persistent drumbeat.  And Dorian… Dorian breathes against his mouth, as if he’s trying to _give back_ what he’s stealing until they kiss again, fingers relaxing against Felan’s pulse point.  

The dreamy feeling Felan gets from the intermittent pressure on his throat is soon heightened when Dorian drags the fingers of his free hand down his abdomen, lower _...lower still._ Felan only breaks from their morish kiss when Dorian massages his half-hard bulge through the growing restriction of his thick cotton leggings.

Dorian halts Felan’s breathing one last time, and with one final press against the elf’s cock as he does so, he grinds slow against Felan’s ass.  Within that small fraction of time, that little ember they’d been stoking ignites and engulfs the two of them.  In response, Felan pivots in Dorian’s hold to kiss him properly, wrapping his arms around the man’s neck, _hungry for him._  He presses his hips up into Dorian’s when needy fingers rake through his long, silvery-white fringe.  A rumble of sound echoes against his lips as Dorian growls, frustrated, at the lack of length the shorn hair at the back of Felan’s head provides him to properly latch onto.  

Feeling rather devious, Felan claws down the nape of Dorian’s neck in a lazy-slow drag while grinding up against him again in an equally tantalising manner.  Along with the responsive groan he receives, Felan _swears_ the room grows brighter behind the dark of his eyelids.  He laughs, feeling successful in his childish “nuisance,” when Dorian finally grips the hair at the left side of his head, _hard…_ hard enough to pull Felan’s mouth away and cause him to crack open his eyes at the same time.

That’s when the Inquisitor notices that the flames tipping the candelabras and small groupings of candles he’d left burning around his room are now fully, _blindingly_ aglow; mini-waxen torches all standing at such bright attention for them.  ...It’s almost _mesmerising._

For a hypnotic moment, Dorian watches the flames reflect within the pale blue canvas of Felan’s eyes.   _“I see you like playing with fire, Inquisitor…”_ he drawls, relinquishing Felan’s hair whilst dropping his hands to narrow hips, smirking at the way the rogue’s nimble fingers slide down his chest (in an all too brief tease) to begin their quick work in opening Dorian’s leather jerkin - only for Dorian, in turn, to be stunned by how Felan tugs it off his shoulders with an almost _violent_ ease.  He can’t help his endeared chuckle when he notices the blush that blooms (with the most endearing tinge of pink) across Felan’s lightly tanned cheekbones - all the way to the long, narrow tips of his ears.

Felan answers the human’s gaze with one of his fox-sly-smirks, and Dorian helps in divesting himself of his clothing by shrugging his arms free; the garment falling to the floor, and readily forgotten.  

“Perhaps it is because I am not afraid of being _burned.”_  The low rasp in Felan’s voice wraps around the masked taunt as he trails his fingers over the brown peaks of Dorian’s nipples, clearly admiring the small gold rings there.  The elf stills his fingers, pulling away, and tries to hide any further crimsoning upon his face by hurriedly unfastening the ornate eye-closures at his own neck. “Now, the question is… are _you,_ Dorian?”

But Dorian doesn’t meet Felan’s questioning eyes just yet, too enveloped in the distraction of elegant, nervous fingers working along small, silver hooks.  He does however, want desperately to remark upon the charming way his new lover tries to conceal his awkward, self-induced fumbling; he chooses to instead focus on helping unhook those many fasteners of Felan’s gorgeously embellished black doublet - one of the only times Dorian can actually recall feeling _underdressed_ around the Inquisitor.

“Am _I_ afraid, you ask?”

 _“Yes.”_ Felan leans into Dorian, letting the stiff doublet slip from his arms in the process.  He uses their intimate proximity to mask his self-consciousness towards his very lithe, elven frame now that Dorian’s more muscular one is half-bared before him, _against him._ And the man’s strong arms wrapping around his shoulder and waist are a welcome shield.

“...Don’t give me a reason to be, Fae.”

This time, for whatever the reason, the nickname held within a Tevinter accent - coupled with the look of _positive devotion_ in Dorian’s eyes - heats Felan to his core, melting away any last scraps of modesty.  Pushing from Dorian’s embrace, Felan steps the couple feet away he needs to before the backs of his thighs hit the footboard of his lavish canopy bed.  He peels his leggings down and off, without making much show of it, and inches himself onto the red and gold duvet towards the middle of the bed - eyes staying locked with Dorian’s in Felan’s best attempt at sexual confidence.

“Come to bed with me, Dorian…”

Lips parted, Dorian makes a noise, resembling something like a cut-off scoff, low in his throat before grumbling, “Festis bei umo canavarum, Felan Lavellan...”

“Well, I won’t take that as a _no...”_

“As you rightfully _shouldn’t.”_   

Dorian scrambles to swiftly unstrap his boots and toe them off, taking note of the slightly scattered piles of the elf’s clothing and boots.  “Ah, so the Inquisitor doesn’t wear smalls, I see,” he chuckles. “Interesting… I’ll have to keep that in mind along with,” his eyes rove over Felan’s nude form, _“other things.”_

“Oh?  Keep in mind for what, exactly?” Felan bites his lip and cocks his head - _feigning ignorance_ \- and starts palming himself in a irritatingly teasing manner.

Dorian proceeds to climb onto the bed, and over Felan. “...Ohh, just a little something to pillow my slumber with in the future.”  The elf spreads his knees apart in anticipation for Dorian’s welcome weight. “You know… on those _terribly_ lonely nights I’ll have to endure when you’re gallivanting around in some peculiar, possessed swamp without me.” A shrewd grin spreads across the man’s face before he removes Felan’s hand from his leaking cock, and gives him a single, chaste kiss.

Before Felan is able to chase him for another kiss, Dorian moves away, causing the younger man to frown.  “And who’s to say you wouldn’t be _with_ me?”

Dorian continues to snake down Felan’s body, gripping the underside of his right thigh, lifting it to kiss his way to a trembling knee.  The mage raises his head briefly to answer Felan, “In a blasted swamp? Thank you, but… _never again._ Otherwise,” Dorian carries on with mapping Felan’s body with his lips and tongue until he reaches the crease of his groin, where he mumbles against the sensitive flesh, just loud enough to be heard, _“I will follow wherever you lead, Felan.”_

Without too much in the way of flashy display, Dorian’s right hand dances slightly out to his side, snuffing out all candlelight with a bit of force magic, save for the candelabras that stand at either side of Felan’s headboard.  Immediately after, Felan gives a little surprised jolt when he hears the sudden roar of fire contained by the stone hearth of his chambers. He wants to glower down at Dorian for being a show-off until he glimpses the desirous look hidden beneath his dark, kohl-framed lashes.

Under the soft glimmer of golden ambience that’s left, Felan feels like a willing offering upon a private alter.  All the while, Dorian begins mouthing at the head of his cock in worship, curling his tongue back and forth, collecting the precome there.  

_“Ohhh... fuck, fuuuck, Dorian...”_

Dorian lifts his head, a wicked smile playing upon his full, flushed lips as he grasps the base of Felan’s cock, “You’ll let me savour this now, won’t you?  ...Cannot tell you how many times, _how many ways,_ I’ve pictured us...”

Felan attempts a feeble nod, eyes screwing shut as Dorian takes him in his mouth completely.  A full-bodied pleasure Felan can’t recall experiencing before now, rolls in waves through him as Dorian bobs his head in a painfully slow fashion.  He arches his back up off the bed and scrambles for a hold on Dorian's hair; the sensation of the man’s saliva-slickened rings against his dick an unexpected welcome.  The warm, wet, massaging heat of Dorian’s mouth and tongue is _incomparable_ when he thinks back to the nights he’d used his oiled hand to imagine the same.  The mage’s hold on Felan’s cock pulses with each small upward movement that meets his occupied lips, while the palm of his other hand smooths up and down Felan’s inner thigh.  The pad of Dorian’s thumb teases pressure against the seam of Felan’s sac, moving his caress further down until he reaps stuttering whines from his lover.

Felan isn’t confident he’ll be able to take much more of this soon.

“Doriannn… ugh, _please…_ I want _more of you.”_ Felan’s fingers softly grab at Dorian’s face in a bid to bring him upwards.  

Finally, _finally_ their mouths meet again - Felan wanting nothing more than to let Dorian devour every sound he makes, like some blasphemous prayer to the Creators.  His hands move hastily to untie the man’s leather breeches; his impatience almost getting the better of him when Dorian leans away towards the bedside table to remove the gold jewelry from his fingers and place them upon it.  As Dorian’s strong arms cage Felan in once more, he slides his hands across the older man’s lower back, tentative fingers pressing along the dimples there, rewarding Felan with the sinful grind of Dorian’s hips. His fingers crawl further down, down beneath Dorian’s waistband and silk smallclothes; nails digging into the Tevinter’s muscled ass as he pushes the last of that impeding fabric down over his thighs.

Now, even as Dorian finishes wriggling out of his leather breeches _(how could this man make even_ that _look graceful?_ Felan wonders _),_ everything feels _right._ Even when Felan grabs and kisses at any inch of skin he can in a fit of over-excitement, everything seems _perfect.  As it should be - whole_ **_.  Real._ **

Dorian moves to Felan’s side, propping himself up on an elbow above him; gaze-turned-to-smiling at the bemused look he soon receives.

“Dorian, what is it?”

The Tevinter sighs, fixing the curl of his moustache between his thumb and index finger, _“Relax._  Just keep your eyes on me, alright?  I want to… _try something._ If it is not to your liking, in even the slightest, I need only a word.”

When he gets a short permitting nod, Dorian drags his middle finger down Felan’s bottom lip, trailing the single line of vallaslin as it curves down his chin; following to where it branches out upon his throat and passed his sternum.  His finger comes to rest only when it dips into the hollow space between the elf’s collarbones; and idling there, Dorian closes his eyes in concentration, letting out a weighty sigh as the most diminutive green-white flames begin to lap and dance their way down Felan’s chest, across his ribcage, and up towards his neck again with each delicate stroke of Dorian’s gracefully moving finger.

The feeling against Felan’s skin is quite unlike the true heat of a burn, though much more consistent with a breeze carrying the pleasant warmth of a distant bonfire on its back… with a unusual, yet oddly comforting _chill_ at its center.  Dorian’s fingers, like a fountain of needles, prick away and sooth any lingering tension or bone-deep ache Felan previously had.  But it wasn’t exactly like healing magic he’d experienced before, _it was something more._ Felan is familiar with this strange _cold-fire,_ something clicking into place inside his brain, and his eyes go a little wide with realisation; the anchor crackling and flaring a viridescent, inadvertent warning between them that causes Dorian’s eyes to fly open.

“Dorian…?” Felan questions in a whisper.

Once the marked hand quiets, Dorian angles in to whisper against Felan’s mouth, “You trust me, Fae?”

_“Implicitly.”_

Dorian leans his head back to search Felan’s face, taken a little aback by the conviction in that one word.  He did not recall anyone having openly trusted him so much (or at least in admittance) - one person placing confidence in him in such a way, in which he could _likewise impart._ In all likelihood, Felix was nigh closest in his life, but Felix was gone now…

And this?  These feelings, these sweet sentiments?  This was _loyalty,_ yes - that much of which Dorian was accustomed to.  But, _mutual…_ loyalty and certitude… that was rare to come by in the world as _he_ knew it.  And the rest…  Well, Dorian doesn’t want to think about _the rest._ He is _already_ thinking much, _too much_ about this thing with Felan.  

 **_Hoping_ ** _._

Hoping so hard, Dorian’s heart yearned to burst.  Perhaps the iron cage in his chest was losing its necessity with Felan in his life…   _Felan Lavellan… his bloody undoing._

And, as if said damnably gorgeous elf could pluck trifling worries from his mind:

“Dor?  You’re thinking too much… I can always tell.”  Of course, _of course._ Felan’s slender fingers reach for the austere set of Dorian’s jaw, easing him back to the present.

“Yes, of course… I mean, _I’m alright,_ it is nothing.” Dorian gives Felan a reassuring smile as he moves to curl against his side a bit more, biting back a moan with the friction of his cock pressing into his lover’s hip.  Two of his fingers continue a teasing exploration of Felan’s body, this time forming thin trails of frost in their wake. His index finger circles around Felan’s navel, then once more with just enough veilfire-heat to melt the ice that coats the elf’s skin.  Subconsciously, Dorian is finding the need to chastise himself for wanting to salivate at the image laid _literally_ before him:  Felan’s intent regard for every pattern of ice-turned-to-water that Dorian swirls across his taut stomach; the way his dick twitches when a bead of warm water rolls its way into his navel; and finally, the sweet shiver of Felan’s body against him when Dorian slowly inches his fingers up and down the severe line of muscle at the junction of his hip - the film of ice immediately turning to condensation upon Felan’s skin with just his rising body heat.

Felan sucks in a breath just as Dorian’s knuckles brush the length of his cock, collecting a pearl of precome on the top of his hand as he does so.  His thighs quake and part ever more for those fingers that _refuse_ and _torment,_ just shy of his aching need.Hips canting into the ghosting touch involuntarily, Felan shifts to kiss Dorian, licking his way into the mage’s mouth slowly, but with an impatient moan.  Every muscle in Felan’s body is wound tighter and tighter - a lute string bound to snap - and oh, _how he wants to._ Turning onto his side, Felan bids Dorian’s legs to open with the gentle nudge of his knee, and smiles into their kiss when he rolls their hips together - relishing in the hard, heated slide of the man’s cock against his own, and the way Dorian proceeds with peppering wet kisses down his neck and shoulder.

Before Dorian can fully attempt to wrap his leg about Felan’s hip, Felan throws his weight to his right, pinning the other man beneath him by the wrists.  Looking down at his lover, Felan bites his own lip into his mouth with an all too fitting rogueish glint in his eyes. He is a bit relieved to find the playful friendship he and Dorian had was trickling into… _whatever this would turn out to be._ Whatever this _could be..._

 _“Oh._  He thinks he’s _clever,”_  the Tevinter purred snidely, wriggling his wrists weakly under Felan’s hold.

Felan shrugs indifferently. “Sometimes.”  Dipping his head down towards Dorian’s pecs, Felan admires the rapid, anticipatory rise and fall of his chest.  His mouth hovers over Dorian’s right nipple, tongue just barely flicking out - _teasing,_ hardly tasting - and holds fast to Dorian’s wrists, looking up at him through thick lashes as he blows cool air to the dampened flesh.  One corner of the elf’s mouth ticks up in satisfaction when Dorian shudders beneath him, but wanting to illicit even more of a response, Felan frees one of his hands with the release of Dorian’s left wrist.  

Small, enthusiastic sounds begin to fill Felan’s room as he grasps Dorian’s cock. He’s stroking with painfully slow movements, intent on driving the man mad with lust.  Sucking lightly at Dorian’s nipple, Felan wraps his tongue along the golden ring there, letting the metal clack against his eye teeth as he bit down with alternating pressure.  

“Maker’s breath!   _Fuck, Felan…!”_ Dorian gasps and claws at Felan’s shoulder, manicured nails leaving raised pink pathways across his olive skin.  The mage’s back bows off the bed as he savours the pull of Felan’s teeth on the little piece of jewelry again, and the vibration from a content moan.  

Increasing the pace of his hand, Felan brushes his thumb along the head of Dorian’s cock and through the steady beading of precome there.  He kisses Dorian hard just then, moving his last restrictive hand from Dorian’s other wrist so as to cup the side of his face - in turn letting his lover embrace him fully.

Dorian begins to slow Felan’s hand with his own, “Wait… You…”  He can barely strangle out words in between the movement of their mouths, and nips the elf’s bottom lip to pull his attention further.

Catching the hint, Felan lets their lips part for a time - time enough for him to stretch his lean form over the bed, grabbing for an innocuous dark-cobalt vial that lies amongst a few other coloured glass bottles on his bedside table.  He sets it on a decorative pillow near Dorian’s head before rejoining their mouths and tongues in a starved dance; the older man forced to reach for it blindly, tilting his face away from Felan to get a better look at the vial’s contents.

 _“...Use it.”_ Felan’s voice is whispered-gravel in Dorian’s ear; the sharp tug between the elf’s teeth his pierced lobe receives, a hefty emphasis.

Dorian needn't think on what those _short-and-to-the-point_ instructions meant, exactly; his heart already beating more excitedly at the implications.

The dexterous fingers of one hand begin to carefully shimmy the silvered stopper from the mouth of the vial.  Dorian moves his other arm beneath Felan’s hovering shape as the elf nibbles and kisses absently at his neck, and coats the index and middle finger of one hand with the oil contained by the glass container.  Dorian is caught off guard when Felan’s hand suddenly folds over his to seize the vial from his grasp.

The svelte form above Dorian retreats _;_ Felan leaning to sit back upon his heels as he poured a generous amount of faintly scented oil into his palm.  Dorian watches the blinking candlelight catch the thin cascade of viscous liquid from the lip of the blue glass; the contracting ridges of Felan’s stomach muscles; each pale sliver of scar that marred his skin a memory the mage wishes he could erase from his lover’s flesh; the enticing shine of brick-red tattooed upon Felan’s kiss-wet bottom lip.  It’s all a stunningly beautiful, _priceless_ painting to Dorian’s eyes, more precious than any artwork that could _ever_ adorn the walls of his family’s Qarinus estate.

The moment Felan’s warm, slick fingers wrap around Dorian’s length, his hips buck up into the sensation; his body involuntarily seeking more of that sweet, frictionless glide.  Dorian silently beckons Felan closer, and wraps his left arm low around the elf’s hips so as to coast his fingers down the spread of his ass while Felan straddles his legs further apart for him.

First enjoying the enticing sensation of one finger running along his entrance in little, soft circles, Felan rocks forward, stilling the motion of his hand on Dorian’s cock when that same digit begins to enter him to the first knuckle.  A gust of breath and pleasured sound leaves him at the start of being worked open. It’d been awhile for Felan, and he’s thankful Dorian is taking things slowly, but that doesn’t stop his increasing arousal from the thrilling burn as Dorian soon adds a second finger.  Fucking himself back on Dorian’s fingers with the gradual roll of his hips, Felan leans down to kiss his lover passionately.

Felan experiences the _slightest_ pang of unwarranted jealousy when Dorian starts massaging the sweetest of spots inside him, almost immediately - knowing the other man is much more… _well-versed_ than he in things requiring a skill of the carnal variety.  But he snuffs it out, instead zeroing in on the blissful feeling currently filling his being.

“Uhhn, _fuuuuck..._  Mm... _Dorian, garas, aman na'mis…!”_ A short string of Elvhen drifts from Felan’s mouth when Dorian alternates the steady thrust of his fingers with teasing, circular motions upon his prostate.  Dorian attempts to swallow down his moans with a kiss, but Felan moves his head away to breathlessly clarify in the trade tongue, _“Please, Dorian… uhhn, just… fuck me.”_

The elf’s request was followed with a firm clash of teeth and tongue; Dorian meeting Felan’s mouth with renewed fervour until he flips him back onto the mattress.  For a moment, Dorian looks down at the ravenous grey-blue of Felan’s eyes; the black of his pupils eating up that beautiful, icy colour. He lifts one of Felan’s slender legs over his shoulder, slotting his lover’s hips between the wide straddle of his knees and thighs to better position himself with Felan’s ass.

Both men’s gazes never leave the other’s face as Dorian eases his slick cock in with tentative, shallow thrusts.  It isn’t long before Felan is curling upward, grabbing greedily for Dorian’s hips in a desperate, physical plea.

“Doriannn… _please… ohh!  Fuck… a little harder.”_

Dorian spreads his palm wide against Felan’s chest, and pushes into his body more, causing the elf to hiss between his teeth at the fuller feeling.  But, all either man can envision is more, and more, _and more._

“You want this, Fae?” Turning his head to nip at the flesh of Felan’s calf, Dorian’s eyes fall shut in growing contentment.

 _“Yesss,”_ Felan’s voice is but a sigh, the consonant slithering quietly from his tongue.  He pivots his body slightly to the side, climbing onto one elbow and curling his other leg against Dorian’s thigh in effort to pull him closer.  “...Vhenan, you _know_ I do.”

Felan’s heart comes to a stop for the few seconds it takes Dorian to glide inside him fully with a low grunt.  He’d called his dear friend by what he’d _feared_ he would.  A stupid, careless slip-up - letting his emotions override his already terribly feeble ability to hold his tongue.  He just hopes Dorian’s knowledge of Elvhen doesn’t extend to terms of endearment or professions of love. And perhaps… perhaps somewhere deep inside himself, _he hopes he does know.  ...Fuck it._

Felan is able to temporarily tamp down those anxieties with present distractions, writhing and moaning at every slow roll of Dorian’s hips; at the way tan fingers bite into the paler flesh of his thigh.  His blood feels molten, running through his veins with every deep brush of Dorian’s cock inside him. Felan’s mouth hangs partially open, his eyes fanning shut intermittently while quiet little pants leave his lungs; he lets himself _fall._  When his lust-heavy lids rise halfway again, he realises he is being _studied -_ or something nearly like it.  Something much more like _reverence_ …

Dorian leans down to kiss him before Felan’s thoughts can take root and detract from the moment, and the elf lets himself be drawn back into his many pillows with the helpful press of Dorian’s body.   

Felan feels suddenly heavy with emotion - heavy with the encouraging, muffled sounds Dorian makes against his mouth while his hips snap forward harder; heavy with the clenching in his chest as he circles his arms tight across the mage’s back.  Felan moves his face to bury it against his lover’s neck, savouring the heady scent of sweat and peppered citrus - _every second_ filled with _everything Dorian._

He noses at Dorian’s ear, teeth oh-so-tempted by the few rings there.  “Sit up, let me on top of you.” Felan’s quiet tone reverberates into Dorian’s skin.  The other man slows his thrusts, pulling out finally _\- reluctantly -_ and finds himself being guided back towards Felan’s towering, intricately carved headboard.  Felan hurriedly cushions Dorian’s back with tasseled and fringed pillows before clambering high into his lap.  

Soon Dorian’s vision is swimming with the sight of Felan impatiently uncapping and tipping blue glass to his palm once more.  After tossing the vial on the bed behind him, Felan works his hand over the tip of Dorian’s cock a few times before wiping his hand across the bedspread, dreadfully unconcerned.

“Perhaps we’ve been a bit… ah, _hasty.  Impatient…even.”_ Mouth now sensually askew, Dorian lets a throaty chuckle out and enfolds Felan, lifting and kneading his ass; Dorian’s cock throbbing at the prospect of being surrounded by that awaiting heat again.

Once he feels the testing, slick press of Dorian’s cock head, Felan sinks down hard, circling his hips when wholly filled; a wolfish grin of his own playing upon his lips. “Ohh, you say that _noww… now,_ while I’m already _riding_ your magnificent _cock,_ hmm?”  A flash of Felan’s smile glints in the candlelight, and Dorian feels very much under a spell of no magic he has any grasp of.  ...Or any intention of fighting against.

“Would you have _courted_ me then, Dorian?”  Felan continues in a soft, almost-mocking tone, fingers and nails brushing along Dorian’s forearm as his hand wanders up and down the elf’s undulating torso.  He arches back, letting Dorian feel the tight pull of abs beneath his worshipful touch, his thick cock hitting Felan _just there, but not yet enough_ with the new angle _._

“Mmm....!  I… _fuck, Fae..._ I don’t think… ah, think I’d have known _how,_ exactly.”  Dorian finds himself fighting for use of his words, and failing miserably.  “You aren’t… the easiest of persons to… to pin down, you know…” Synapses fire wildly to pour physical ecstacy over every part of Dorian, and everything funnels to one pinpoint:   _Felan._ Dorian grips the elf’s back with both hands, pulling him forward, bending his own knees up in the process to let his body cradle the much more lithe one in his arms.  He needs nothing more than to lose himself to the perfect, rocking rhythm of Felan’s hips, but slows their movements, wanting to take hold of this tenuous moment for as long as they possibly can, lest the heat build too soon.

“My dear Felan…”

Eyes that are but a flare of black inside icy blue search Dorian’s face in question at the sigh of Felan’s name.  Learching against Dorian, Felan grips the man’s shoulders tightly, giving into the arm that hugs around his lower back, forcing his hips into a tighter, tormenting roll upon Dorian’s lap.

Trying to focus his senses a bit away from _that narrow, enveloping warmth,_ Dorian reaches up to brush the pad of his thumb across the thin scar that runs like a deep, pink river along the bridge of Felan’s lightly sun-freckled nose, then up and over to the silver line through his dark left brow just as a pleasured furrow creases it - old scars he was not in Felan’s life for… scars he could not regret preventing, despite the strong want to.  Dorian silently takes a vow to shield Felan from all that he can, to the best of his ability, with every ounce of power within him, the world falling down around them or no. He doesn’t know that Felan had secretly done the same with Dorian in mind some time ago.

Choking out his next words,“You’re… uhhnn, fuck… _fuck it,”_ Dorian shakes his head at himself minutely before speaking again, in spite of the complicated torrent of emotions and ardency surging inside and without him.  His composure is made all the more fragile by the burning in the tense muscles of his stomach and thighs. _“My amatus... you’re beautiful...”_ More lewd moans spill from his lips as he feels Felan contract around him, _holding him._ “Positively _divine…_ Ohh, _Maker…”_

Felan’s thought process tries to mull over what every word of that means - what “ _amatus”_ could possibly mean for _him,_ but his own quiet moans interrupt that inward contemplation.  

Bearing his weight more onto his knees, courtesy of Dorian’s strong, embrace lifting him around his waist, Felan becomes wracked with sporadic, full-body shudders when Dorian takes over.

Practically holding upright the mewling-mess that _was_ the Inquisitor, Dorian indulges Felan’s lost sensibilities - and more than a little of his own keenness towards this man’s body - by lapping into the shallow well of his sternum - Felan’s heart rapid against Dorian’s tongue;  he then works his way up to an erect nipple; the salt-sweet taste of Felan’s sweat flavouring his mouth’s upward roaming. Dorian thrusts up (with an agonizingly slow, but steady drive) into Felan’s prostate as he leaves the purple-pink bloom of petechiae along the enticing, bony protrusion of a clavicle and in the little dip where the weary, quivering muscles of Felan’s shoulder and chest meet.

Felan just about crashes against Dorian from the persistent, near- overwhelming rub against that little bundle of nerves inside him, his own dick jolting with a new dribble into the already constant stream of precome flowing freely down his shaft and onto his belly each time Dorian thrusts _hard_ and _long_ and _oh, so very deep._

Praising expletives pour from Dorian’s mouth, and he _greatly_ wishes he could suck off _and_ fuck Felan in that moment.  He settles for capturing Felan’s mouth when the opportunity arises soon thereafter, letting the obscene slide of his tongue against the younger man’s be a poor mimicry for the attention he’d love to be lavishing on Felan’s cock.  

Felan pulls back, erratic breath becoming a commingled pant with Dorian’s own as he leans forward and down to rest their sweat-slicked foreheads together.  Every muscle that structures Felan’s lithe frame goes into a fitful flutter in response to Dorian’s pleasing, albeit sudden, increase in the upward, plunging rhythm of his hips.  Dorian releases his hold from around Felan, moving strong hands to narrow hips - forcing Felan to grip the mage’s shoulders in order to hold his pleasure-fatigued body up as he gives in to a rough bounce on Dorian’s cock.

Taking in the pretty flush of Felan’s prick, Dorian breathes out a broken, “Are… are you ready?” and grasps his lover’s cock in a loose hold; the momentum of their hips adding a teasing touch.  

A swift and eager, “Yesss.   _Fuck, yes, Dorian.”_ leaves Felan’s lips as he tilts his head back, fingers dragging his hair back and away from his face.

Dorian thrusts impossibly harder, both men spurred on by the exceedingly indecent muffled smack of his hips against the backs of Felan’s thighs as the elf drives his own body downward.  Feeling his own orgasm brimming evermore towards spilling over the edge, Dorian moves his hand on Felan’s cock at an alacritous pace, focusing on the head. He bites back his bottom lip at the sticky slide against his palm that he desperately wishes to _taste._

“Where do you want me, amatus?” Dorian holds back a shudder, watching Felan’s eyes close, brows pinching together in clear, blissful agony as he answers, “Here.  Just stay… I want,” Felan falls forward, arms wrapping tight around Dorian’s neck as he whispers against the shell of his ear, _“I want to feel you.”_

The husk in that voice, _those words,_ has Dorian falling; spilling almost immediately into the heat of Felan’s body with a low, choked groan. White-out buzz dissipating, Dorian reaches around Felan and quickly tries grasping for the base of his own fading erection as his lover's hips lose their rhythm.  Grinding down in short, stuttering circles as Dorian continues to jerk him off, Felan’s body suddenly seizes against Dorian, arms clutched tight against his back as nails score his skin.  With hiccupping moans, Felan comes hard in the clench of Dorian’s fist, biting into the man’s shoulder to smother the sounds there.

“Ohh, my amatus… you are _gloriously_ vocal when you ride cock, don’t stifle that,”  Dorian laughs half-heartedly, any energy that wasn’t just sapped out of him focused on getting his ragged breathing back under control and running his fingers along the ridges of Felan’s spine.  “I want to hear every uninhibited, depraved caterwaul that I can coax from your exquisite throat during our subsequent… _confluences.”_

Their hearts beat back against one another for a moment longer before Felan finally sits up with a small whimper as Dorian’s cock begins to slip free of him.  “Mmm… Dorian, you have... the _filthiest_ mouth,”  Felan drawls amidst a lazy eye roll and an absolutely sated, yet cheeky smile.

Dragging his ring finger up his own chest, Dorian collects the milky-white lines dashed across his sternum, and Felan’s breathing grows ever more broken as he watches that same digit slip between perfect lips, _perfect teeth._ For a second that's too painfully short, Felan catches a glimpse of pink tongue before Dorian’s mouth closes over his coated finger and _sucks._ And damn the man, Dorian has the brass to quirk up an eyebrow in unison with the lopsided uptick of one corner of his mouth, _humming_ \- humming in _enjoyment_ with an innocent-yet-playful look, as if he'd just as innocently swiped his finger through the sugary icing atop one of those stupid, little frilly Orlesian cakes Josie orders for him ever-so-often.

Felan just gapes like a dead fish until Dorian’s dulcet voice comes back to him like a soothing thrum in his heated, twitching ears.

“Ah, yes.  And getting _filthier by the minute,_ it seems.”

Feeling quite like the wind was knocked from his lungs, Felan lets out a choked sigh.  He feels the warmth of a blush creep down his neck from his face, but shrugs it off in favour of bowing down with a possessive _growl_ to latch back onto that dirty mouth he’s quickly grown to love so very, _very_ dearly.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Chapter title and the line, "fingers like a fountain of needles" from Siouxsie and the Banshees' song, "The Sweetest Chill," which also inspired my writing of the magicplay portion of this!
> 
> **Lyrics in the summary of this and the first chapter from mewithoutyou's "In a Sweater Poorly Knit." Only I'd swapped "she" for "he" for the purpose of this fic. 
> 
> ***Thanks to FenxShiral & Project Elvhen, where I did fic research and got my little snippet of Elvhen dialogue for a very, very eager Felan
> 
> Comments & kudos, appreciated, my loooves!  
> Come find me on tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky :)


	3. To Ask the Sea for Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well I've seen you suffer,  
> I've seen you cry  
> The whole night through  
> So I'll be your water,  
> Bathing you clean  
> With liquid blue
> 
> ...I'll be your lover,  
> I'll be yours.
> 
> ...I'll be your anchor,  
> You'll never leave these shores that cure"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I finished writing this, I wrote up a (currently) three-chapter prequel that takes place several months before Firebreather. It's called Un Coup d'oeil and is now considered Part One of this series. Things in this chapter will make more sense once you've read that, or it can be read following this chapter, if you should so choose to do it that way :)

“May I toss this in the fireplace?”

Felan brings his legs up to his chest, arms wrapping about his sheet-draped shins as he peers over his knees at Dorian’s… well,  _ very bare  _ form.  “Ahh…  _ what  _ are we burning, exactly?”

_ “...This?”   _ Dorian gestures vaguely at the piles of missives, requests, and reports; neat and scattered, upon Felan’s desk amongst inkwells and little solid blood-red pools of wax.  Even now, the sheaves beckon him with their significance and monotony.

“I… am most certain Josie would drop dead if we did that, Dorian,”  Felan laughs. “It’s been  _ worse, _ trust me.  I can get through those.”  

Dorian gawks at him in disbelief momentarily and scoffs.  “Well, that just won’t do.” Little disappointed wrinkles crease the space between his brows as he makes his way back towards the bed.

Felan sighs.  “I just need to catch Cullen soon to help me go over them.  He… he usually does, anyway. I-if he isn’t busy...” Felan averts his eyes in effort to hide the shame and embarrassment upon his face.  He always had horrible tells, and his woeful losses at Wicked Grace were a testament to that fact. Dorian’s pity is not something Felan wants right now.  He’s given enough of that before...

Leaning his weight onto his fists atop the mattress, Dorian narrows his eyes at Felan.  “Fae, is it trouble  _ reading them,  _ or  _ writing _ the replies? _  Honestly?” _

“Honestly?” Felan echoes.  “Both, I suppose. But with reading, I can pluck out words and sometimes get the gist of it all… _ the writing bit, though…  _ I can’t very well write a five word note that isn’t even a cohesive thought and hope  _ someone  _ understands.  At Haven, Josephine or Leliana would usually be the ones reading or informing me of anything I’d needed to know; passing things along to whomever for me in answer when needed, all that rot.  And… in the beginning, Cassandra was a guiding voice once she trusted me enough to not want to kill me. But now-”

“Now the  _ Inquisitor  _ must appease everyone?  Wear all the hats, fancy or not?” Dorian’s words bite with an edge of sarcasm.  “You should have told me it was this bad, Fae. I’d have helped you more than you let me, you know.”

“I didn’t want to be a bother.  Besides, I rather enjoyed you reading to me instead.”  Felan’s face goes flush the instant the words spill from his mouth, and he bows his forehead against his knees; his efforts to hide, futile, when a warm hand envelopes one of his.  He raises his head just enough to catch sight of the gentle smile Dorian offers as he sits on the edge of the bed next to Felan.

“And you know I never minded.”

Felan’s expression breaks out in a wide grin.  It makes Dorian feel warm inside.  _ Happiness looks good on him,  _ Dorian thinks.  But all the happiness in the world couldn’t hide Felan’s almost ever-present dark circles, usually partially hidden my eye makeup.  Dorian thinks back to the times Felan had fallen asleep to him reading… and the one time he’d asked Dorian to purposefully read him to sleep.  He shoos away that memory… for now.

“Still having issues sleeping?” Dorian asks.

“The nightmares are finally becoming less frequent, but falling asleep is still a struggle, I’ll admit.  Sometimes I close my eyes and the black behind my eyelids makes me think of back then… There are times I swear I’m back in the dark of the mountains, seeing silhouettes of the trees, hearing the wolves call out, trying to find my way to all of you.  And then I have to get up and  _ do something  _ to remember I’m  _ not there.   _ Fucking hell, Dorian… What is this?  Your turn to fret over  _ me  _ now, mm?” Felan’s plastered-on smirk falters when Dorian’s expression falls to one of a quiet sadness.  “...Dor?”

“Just reminding myself of how truly glad I  _ am _ that you made it back to us that day...  I don’t care  _ how, _ or by what intervention… Ah, anyway, enough of this lachrymose talk.  It’s lovely, I swear, but-”

Felan cut him off with a kiss, swift and deep, lingering just long enough to convey his meaning as more than a method of quieting the man.

“Thank you, Dorian.”

Stunned momentarily into silence, Dorian comes back to himself.  “What-whatever for? Hoping you’d come back alive?”

“For everything you’ve done to help, thus far.”

_ There are those damned feelings again. _ _ This is not good,  _ Dorian tells himself. __ He stands, clearing his throat, “Yes, well, you can also thank me for perhaps turning you into a learned man, yet.  I didn’t mean to  _ pry, _ but I noticed a letter from your clan.”

“Couldn’t help your eyes from wandering, hm?”

Dorian laughs quietly and looks down at himself.  “Perhaps,  _ I  _ am not the one with wandering eyes, currently,”  Felan scowls at him. “Anyway, I thought, maybe we’d start there?  If you don’t mind me reading back to you what is written, that is. Then I will help you write out a response letter, if you so wish it.”

“It’s fine.  Leliana has already told me what it said.  But I suppose I should write and tell them I’m  _ alive  _ so they can leave it be for now.  First… Do you think perhaps you could ah... cover up?”

Dorian barks out a laugh.  “Ohhh, my dear,  _ distracted,  _ are we?!  As you wish, I shall make myself  _ decent,  _ only in the name of preserving your sanity and concentration, though.”  He walks back over to Felan’s desk, making sure his hips sway  _ just so,  _ plucks the letter up, and returns to the Inquisitor’s  bed. As Dorian climbs in next to Felan, he demonstrates his idea of “decent” by merely covering himself loosely with the sheets.  The elf is in the same state of undress as he; it’s only fair - tease intended or no.

Lacking in subtlety and indulging in comfort, Felan brushes their shoulders together, leaning more heavily into Dorian when he moves his arm around Felan without a hint of hesitation.  He eyes the familiar-looking letter as his lover thumbs it open with one hand.

“Dorian, we don’t have to do this right now.  I should be making sure  _ you  _ are alright.”

“Me?  Ah… yes.  I apologise again that you had to witness all of that.  I’ll be fine, eventually. I should honestly be used to it by now.  Thinking back, I can’t say I’m surprised that my father pulled you into his little scheme.  I am sorry for that, as well. But I’ll work through it, I always do.”

Felan sat up a little straighter, pulling Dorian’s attention to him directly.  “Just because you’re used to it or expect it, doesn’t mean it hurts any less. That was evident… sorry.  But Dorian, you said he was going to use blood magic to-”

“Yes, yes I know!”  Dorian drops the letter into his lap to rake his hands through his already mussed hair.  “I don’t know that I can ever forgive him for that. I don’t really want to think on it much more.  I had many a fucking wet and dreary night camped out on my way down here to ruminate about what would have happened if I hadn’t caught wind of his little plan and run.  Thought about Mother in one of her drunken stupors, watching over the whole thing with that famous apathetic glaze in her eyes; shaking her head, muttering, ‘Oh,  _ filius,  _ if only you wouldn’t _ fight it…   _ If only you’d been what we  _ wanted.’   _ Nevermind the fact that I became  _ exactly  _ what they’d wanted and more, minus that  _ one little flaw.” _

Felan reaches for the side of Dorian’s face, turning the man’s gaze towards him, though Dorian fights it weakly.   _ “Dorian.   _ It isn’t a flaw.  And I’m glad you ran.”

“I was a coward.”

“I think you’re incredibly  _ brave.  _  It’s not easy to abandon tradition and walk your own path… I should know.”

“Is that so?” Dorian grasps for the hand cupping his jaw, bringing Felan’s marked palm to his lips.

“I’ve only told you of finer times with my clan.”

Dorian’s mouth moves against Felan’s palm.  “Yes, the prodigal young hunter who loved to make showy weapons.  Life with your Dalish people was not all sunshine and rainbows out there in the wilderness, then?  Shocking.”

“A tale for another time…”  Felan grabs the letter from Dorian’s lap and moves it to the table beside the bed.

“Black sheep have all the fun, yes?”

“Oh, it’s the absolute best…” Moving some pillows around to lay on, and throwing others of the obnoxious sort off the bed to be more comfortable, Felan pulls Dorian down to lay beside him.  “I’m glad you ran, Dorian. I’m glad to know you.”

“Of course you are, you got to  _ bed me,”  _  Dorian shoots Felan a salacious grin.  “In all seriousness, I am glad you got to know  _ this  _ me… I wouldn’t want to know the Dorian who would’ve been the outcome of my father’s spell, had he succeeded.  The very  _ idea  _ still haunts me…”  Dorian clears his throat. “So, no reading tonight, then?”

Felan inches his way closer to Dorian as the man runs his fingers through his silvery hair in slow, calming movements.  “No, not tonight. And certainly not  _ that.   _ I don’t need my mood ruined.”

“Oh?  The letter seemed a bit important, but I didn’t realise my whining over dreadful family matters was something that put one in good spirits.”  Dorian drops his voice to a low whisper, “Or, my dear Felan, are you of a  _ different  _ mood?”

Brushing Dorian’s nose with his own, Felan lets his mouth linger centimetres from his lover’s.  “I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean,” He whispers innocently. “But… perhaps I could be persuaded…”

Kissing Felan softly, Dorian tugs him against his body.  He wants to curse Felan, curse  _ himself  _ for letting his emotions get the better of him.  But Dorian knows, just like he’s always known, that he is completely and utterly besotted with the elf.  And sure, he’ll let himself play pretend a little while longer, let feelings hover, just as he had before - pretending the drunken mistake of a kiss was a goodnight kiss from one lover to the other, that Felan was asleep in  _ their bed,  _ that Maker, Felan was his, his,  _ his.   _ But Dorian was worlds’ away from stupid - he  _ knew _ Felan’s heart belonged to another back then, and he had quite the idea of  _ whom _ he had given it to.  Felan might be unattached now, but that was besides the point...

Dorian’s fingers ghost over the slight curve of Felan’s ass, down to grip his thigh - hiking Felan’s leg over his hip as he does so.  Felan moans into their kiss, grinding up against Dorian’s hardening cock.

“Mm…  _ persuaded,  _ are we?” Dorian asks in between kisses down Felan’s jaw.

_ “Veryyy.” _

Rolling himself on top of Felan, Dorian leads a trail of nips and licks from Felan’s neck, down his chest.  He feels Felan adjust his cock to glide down between the cleft of Dorian’s ass and his palm with each little movement of their hips.  Dorian can’t help but surge up to meet his lover’s mouth with his own again; tongues running against each other, against lips open in pleasured gasps.  

“You kissed me before, you know,” Dorian says against Felan’s mouth.  

“Yes, I’m aware.” Felan pushes into another kiss, harsh and needy, wanting to shut Dorian up.  But Dorian rises onto his elbows to look down at Felan.

“No, I mean… months ago… you were, quite upset and intoxicated.  Do you remember that, at least? The night the sky opened up and shit down mountains of snow on our heads instead of demons, hm?”  Felan just gapes at him, a look of confusion finally breaking the blank stare.

“Wh-what are you on about?  I  _ kissed you  _ then?” Felan rolls his eyes and sighs exasperatingly.  “Fenedhis… Why are you telling me  _ now  _ of all times?  Better yet, why didn’t you bloody say something  _ then?!” _

Dorian sits up fully, crossing his arms over his chest.  “As I  _ said,  _ you were utterly drunk and even more upset.  You made me read to you about  _ magic, Fae.   _ Magic!!”

“Well you… I don’t know, could have done something about it!”  Felan’s voice competes with the frustrated volume in Dorian’s own.

“Oh, could I have now?  I wasn’t going to take advantage of you!  You were in a state all night! Right up until you passed out after kissing me, of course.  What kind of friend do you take me for??”

Answer escaping him, Felan sputters, grasping for words as his brain trips over itself.  But Dorian speaks before Felan can snag a thought, “I’ll answer for you,  _ one with a conscience, clearly!   _ ...Not like it mattered, anyway.”  Dorian attempts to get off of Felan, but the elf grabs for his wrist, stopping him.

“That isn’t fair.  Dorian, I- _ look at me,”   _ Dorian glares back at Felan, wrenching his wrist free. __ “Dor, do you think  _ this  _ doesn’t mean anything?”  The words are spoken a little more softly as Felan tries to calm his frustrations.

“I don’t know.  Do  _ you  _ want it to mean something?”

“Ughh!” Felan claps his hands over his face as he groans in anger. “Fucking hell!  Don’t answer a question with a question!”

_ “Fine.   _ Truth is, I don’t know what I find more terrifying… that I  _ do  _ want it to mean something, or that you  _ might not.”   _

Catching Dorian off guard, Felan pulls him back down on top of him, with an “Oomph!” from the both of them.  “I wouldn’t have kissed you out there on that bench if you didn’t mean something to me Dorian. I wouldn’t have come looking for you, worried about whether or not you were alright, for that matter, either.  What I feel for you is honestly the only thing that kept me from biting my tongue in front of your father.”

Dorian’s brows rose.  “Oh? Once we realised we were deceived you called him a ‘slithering, conniving bastard’ and  _ then, _ once I gave you  _ a look,  _ you resorted to muttering Elvhen under your breath, albeit _ loudly, _ every time he completed a sentence.  __ I’d love to know what you  _ not  _ biting your tongue would have been like.”

“Much more colourful turns of phrases in trade-tongue, I promise you.  But you’re avoiding the topic at hand, Dorian.”

“I am, aren’t I?”  Dorian leans up to rest his forehead against Felan’s, cupping the elf’s face.  “I don’t know what happens next, amatus. I fear I’ve no experience in these matters - not for lack of trying.  But back home, well… you know the rest now, I suppose. And this makes the rumours true, you realise?” Dorian lifts his head to look into Felan’s eyes.  The dwindling candlelight plays entrancing shadows along the angles of his face, casting Felan’s skin in a warm glow.

“Whatever gave you the impression I minded?  I just didn’t want Mother Giselle spitting her ignorance to you again, well-meaning or no.  Dorian… can I ask you one last question? And promise me you’ll answer it honestly?”

“...Ask away.”  Folding his hands on Felan’s chest, Dorian lays his full weight on his lover, resting his chin on Felan’s tattooed sternum.  He smiles warmly at Felan, not anticipating the question that follows.

“What does  _ ‘amatus’  _ mean?  I assume it’s Tevene, of cou-”

_ “Shit.”   _ Dorian sighs, moving to lay his forehead on his hands, immediately ashamed.

“It’s only- well, you’ve called me that a couple times tonight, and-

_ “Beloved.” _

“What?”  Felan isn’t sure he’d heard right - Dorian had been mumbling against his chest as the man hid his face, after all.   After a beat, Dorian finally raises his head again, his eyes gone slightly red and glassy.

“Beloved… It means  _ beloved.”   _ Felan pulls him into a searing kiss, pouring everything he can into it.  Dorian tries to give back all he can - all he’s wanted to for months and months now; all he’d wanted to during that fateful  _ first _ kiss.

Felan loses his control the moment Dorian’s tongue slides into his mouth, deepening the kiss with a shared alacrity.  He claws at Dorian’s back as the mage holds onto the side of his face. Felan once again senses the candlelight rise in brightness before going out all at once.  Both men are washed in partial darkness, the luminescence from the heat of the still-burning fire in the hearth their only light source. Dorian plants a quick kiss to the vallaslin trailing over the curve of Felan’s shoulder and apologises quietly when he sits up to reach towards bedside table where he’d placed the vial of oil earlier.  

When Dorian drapes himself over Felan again, he’s met with a look in his lover’s eyes - a look Dorian knows full-well the meaning of - but he internally begs for a drop of simplicity for the rest of the night.  He knows he has the same look in his own eyes, more than likely. Saying those things aloud makes them  _ real,  _ though.  And real things can be taken away and broken.  Dorian doesn’t want to give Felan one more broken thing in his life.   _ He deserves something whole and complete for once. _

But of course, Felan never was one for simplicity.  He was the damn  _ Herald of Andraste  _ and leader of the Inquisition, after all.

Hands going to each side of Dorian’s face, Felan does nothing beyond kissing him for a moment; a thumb tracing over the beauty mark gracing Dorian’s right cheekbone.  Dorian’s nerves smooth over with each brush of that digit -  _ temporarily. _

“Stay with me, Dorian.   _ Be with me.   _ Not just for tonight. _ ”  _  Felan whispers the plea vehemently.

“You mean… a relationship?  I… you really  _ are  _ going to be the death of me, you know.”

“And your avoidance of answering questions is going to drive me to an early grave, as well.”  Felan snarks back.

Dorian begins peppering a kiss to wherever he can upon Felan’s face - the red tattooed line bisecting his chin, his scarred brow, a tanned cheek; all while Felan goes into a fit of giggles, pushing Dorian away half-heartedly.  “Dorian! By the Void, man!  _  An answer!” _

“I may be positively dreadful at it, I must warn you, as this is uncharted territory for me, but  _ yes…  _ Maker, yes,  _ amatus.   _ If this can work,  _ ex imo pectore, yes.” _

Felan laughs. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll muddle through somehow.”

“What a fine thought.  Making it up as we go, then?  Like the Inquisition, I presume?”

Hugging Dorian closer, Felan jokes, “Seems to be my go-to.  It has worked so far.” before meeting Dorian’s mouth with his own once more.

“Yes, I see that...  Well then, Felan… care to _ inquisit me?”  _ Dorian asks between open-mouthed kisses.  

Felan’s lips and body go still.   _ “You really just said that,” _ he deadpans in a hushed tone.

Dorian breaks eye-contact with him.  “I did, didn’t I? Maker’s breath, you’ve made me soft in the head!  You see? This is why I shouldn’t stay. Too much of a good thing!” He feigns leaving as Felan pulls him back down, crushing their mouths together.

“Ohh no you don’t!  I’m not quite finished with you…”

Smiling, and heart quickening into a timid beat, Dorian croons, “Mm, and I hope not for a long, long while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from a line in the Placebo song, "Ask for Answers," and the lyrics in the summary are excerpts from their song, "I'll Be Yours" (sorry, but music has always impacted the majority of my writing and I love sharing it!)
> 
> *"ex imo pectore" - "from the bottom of my heart" in Latin.
> 
> Now that I've finished with some zine stuff for another fandom, and am done with the prequel bits for this, I'm hoping to try and post chapters for Firebreather more frequently than just monthly! *fingers crossed*
> 
> As always, I love hearing feedback!<3


	4. Kiss the Coals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I speak in many tongues to many men;  
> Argue with angels and I always win,  
> But I don't know the first thing about love.
> 
> And moving mountains ain't no thing to me;  
> I've faith enough to cast them to the sea,  
> But I don't know the first thing about love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The POV in this chapter switches a couple times between Dorian and Fae, and will be marked by a "//" when it happens. There is some Elvhen in this chapter towards the very end, which will have translations in the ending notes. 
> 
> Also, I edited this today with the use of one eye (possible scratched cornea), so please forgive any mistakes/typos I might've missed! And feel free to (politely, of course) let me know if you notice any glaring errors!!

 

He shouldn’t love him, _he really shouldn’t._  This is something Dorian had gone over with himself many times, previously.  And he’s run out of fingers to count upon for all the problematic reasons (whether he’d made some of the problems up was besides the point) that keep cropping up as to  _why_ this is a bad idea.  It certainly doesn't help that he knows more than a few who would agree with his many concerns.

Dangerous. _This is dangerous._

The slow, even rhythm of Felan’s heart beneath his palm quickens enough to let on that Fae is beginning to stir.  Without opening his eyes, Felan groans quietly and rolls over to face Dorian, wriggling his way closer until Dorian laughs and pulls him into a tight embrace.  

With Felan burrowed comfortably into his chest, Dorian lets his smile falter out of view, and he distracts himself from the nose that brushes his sternum over and over, by staring into the stained glass shapes of Felan’s windows across the room.  He squints against the sunlight that pierces through the panes in multi-coloured, thin beams. The early morning has given way to milder temperatures, and he’d let the fire die out on its own overnight. The warmth of Felan’s body against his is welcome, nonetheless. _Is this what lovers do?_ Dorian wonders.  He questions whether or not it’s too late to pretend last night was nothing but a fun tryst, nothing serious; convince Felan they’d both gotten caught up in the adrenaline rush of it all, their bodies reacting to what their hearts weren’t yet ready for.  

Yes, he’ll try that - tell him they could “try again” once Felan is finished saving the world. Dorian will see him through to _that_ end, at least.  And then he should be going back to Minrathous to do some good of his own.  By then, Felan will surely forget the possibilities of  _this,_ and Dorian could perhaps leave things be before anyone witnessed him slinking away with his tail between his legs.  It will be a better outcome. Yes, better for them both in the long run.

Because this isn't about them, is it?

“Mm… Had you been watching me all night?”  Dorian feels Felan mumble against his skin.

Dorian scoffs, but smiles through his answer.  _“No._ No, only a little while.” He laughs while Felan shifts back a little to glower at him.  

“Did you sleep then?”

“So many questions so early!” Against his better judgement, Dorian kisses Felan; it lingers, it breaks his heart.  Perhaps he could do this… perhaps he really could _stay._ “I slept some, but the blighted sun coming through all of your windows woke me.  It’s no matter,” He gets up on one elbow, and tries in vain to not get caught in the snare of those perpetually sad eyes of Felan’s.  “I had time to ponder if I could conjure up a spell of levitation that would hold long enough for me to make it around the castle to a different entrance to the main hall, you see.”  

Felan isn’t too pleased with the joke.  _Ah._

“Worried about the castle's gossipmongers already, then? Just recite one of those scathing remarks I’m sure you’ve got catalogued in that brilliant mind of yours for such an occasion - should anyone even say anything.  C’mon… everyone will be too busy stuffing their faces with breakfast or out training to even pay us mind or give a nug’s arse about the two of us walking down together.”

Dorian attempts to run his fingers through Felan’s bed-head in effort to coerce him into lying about a little longer _(Maker, how was he actually up at this hour after last night?)_ but he's thwarted when Felan ducks away with that vulpine grin of his.  Watching Fae _\- unapologetically so -_ rise to dress, Dorian realises he only had his clothing from last night to change back into.  But not only that, he isn’t so sure he even wanted to get near a mirror before descending to the main hall.  Felan disappears for a few moments into what Dorian assumes is his washroom, coming back out with his hair smoothed back away from his face and kohl the colour of dark rust freshly smudged around his eyes.

“Well, this won’t do,”  Dorian throws the blankets off himself and quickly dresses, ignoring Felan’s confused look.  He enters the washroom and spies a small, somewhat speckled, cloudy mirror mounted above a partially filled washbasin.  Felan pops his head through the arch of the door, looking even more perplexed. “If I’m to be subjected to possible ridicule, I won’t have you showing me up, now, _Inquisitor._ I’ll at least look presentable while your people titter behind their hands at us.  Comb?” With a leisurely smile, Felan points to a small little chest of drawers just behind Dorian.

 

******

 

“I honestly don’t know how you see anything in that dirty glass.  We must have Josephine alerted of this before your good looks are travestied by that sorry excuse for a mirror.”

As the two men descend the many-dreaded-stairs from Felan’s room, they carry on with light-hearted jabs that ease the tension in Dorian’s nerves enough to be ready for whatever came next once they were surely found out.

“It’s not that bad really.  Not like I carried a mirror with me before now.”

Appalled, Dorian stops on the steps abruptly enough to cause Felan to turn around.  “You mean to tell me you and your clan just went about your lives never caring about your appearances, save for what one another said of it?”

Felan stifles a heartier laugh than Dorian knows he wants to loose. _“Dorian!_  Polished armour reflects, you know… as well as _water._ Not sure you were aware…”  Stomping down a couple steps to meet Felan on even footing, Dorian smacks his shoulder with the back of his hand.

“Of course I’m aware, you ass!  But that’s hardly comparable to-”

Felan stops Dorian with a hand raised to silence him.  “So then you’ll see how that grimy, old mirror is an upgrade to _me._ Besides, I haven’t heard any complaints from _you_ about my appearance,”  Felan smirks, then his eyes go a little wide with something akin to mild horror.  “Oh… but, perhaps _you're right_ about it being a little hard to see out of occasionally!  Because your moustache is drooping terribly on the right side!”

Dorian immediately feels his face heat as he cups his hand over his mouth, muffling out a _“You lie!”_

“...I do.”  Felan barks out a barely contained laugh at the proceeding deadly scowl Dorian shoots him.

 _He is insufferable.  And awful. And Maker, damn my soul, but I love him._ Dorian leads on at a quicker, frustrated pace down the stairwell until Felan catches up to him right before the door to the main hall.  Quickly pivoting his steps, Dorian catches Felan about the waist before he can pass, pinning him against the wall. The warmth of Felan’s smiling mouth against his own supersedes any worry for mussing the earlier preening done to his facial hair.  He wasn’t going to let him get away with that so easily.

“Fae, you’re terrible.”

Felan angles his head away enough so that they lock eyes, and Dorian glares at the arrogant smile on his face.   _“Terrible.”_ Dorian reiterates.  If Felan keeps looking at him like that, he won't have to worry about running into anyone during breakfast, for he’ll end up taking him right here on the stairs.   _Now there’s a thought._

The right side of Felan’s mouth curves further up with the arch of his scarred brow as he leans forward to whisper, _“I know.”_ against Dorian’s ear and swiftly kisses him on the cheek before he can even register it happening.  Their fingers tangle together a moment, then Felan slips away from Dorian to open the door.

“Ohh, _SHITE!”_ Felan almost runs right into a very shocked-looking Sera, and Dorian into the back of an equally wide-eyed Felan.   _Brilliant._

As Dorian moves beside Fae, Sera’s expression turns suddenly to one of astonished amusement, and Felan shoots her a warning look.   _“Seraaaa…”_

Dorian decides to play it coy.  Sera always hated that. “Oh! This is the part where I’m supposed to say, ‘it isn’t what it looks like,’ yes?  I’m sorry.” Now those icy eyes round on _him._

“But it _is,_ innit?  It’s exactly what it looks like.  HAH! _Knew it!_ You two bin chattin’ each other up for awhile now, actin’ like you got your noses shoved in books up there instead of each other’s arses!  I’m not stupid, y’know, _I got eyes._  And you got ‘em for each other, right?”  Sera sniggers at them, all while looking like the damn cat that got the cream.  Dorian can’t think of a worse candidate to have stumbled upon their guilty faces… except for maybe _Vivienne._  He shudders to think of the patronising lecture they could be receiving at the moment had that happened.

Felan steps forward into the hall and keeps his voice lower, likely hoping Sera follows suit.  Dorian wishes she _would._ “It IS _none of your business.”_

Sera roughly shoves something wrapped in what looks like cheesecloth against Felan’s sternum.  “Ow!” Curious, Dorian watches him unwrap the cloth to reveal several lumpy cookies. Felan seems pleased enough though, judging by his beaming smile when he looks back up at Sera.  “Oatmeal-no-raisin?”

“Pff… the only kind worth making!  Had to suffer through servants eyein’ me up like I was going to burn the place down, though.  Stickin’ to sneaking in at night so I don’t have to deal with all that fussing, yeah? Blame the mess on Creepy.”

After folding the cheesecloth back around the oatmeal lumps, Felan places a hand on his friend’s shoulder.  “My dearest Sera, I _knew_ there was a reason I kept you around, after all!”

Sera rolls her eyes, and Dorian finds himself an out to recollect his nerve before their friendly bickering can start by offering to take the little satchel back up to Fae’s room for him.  After a bit of a wary look, Felan concedes without questioning him in front of Sera, thank the Maker. Getting back up to the room, Dorian sets the cookies on a clear spot on Felan’s desk and takes a seat on the bed; his body and mind feeling heavy with the weight of possible outcomes when he inevitably goes back down there.  He obviously can’t hide forever. He just needs a moment. _Just a short moment._ Venhedis, they are all going to find out, and he doesn’t even know if he’s ready…

 

//

Sera rolls her eyes at Dorian’s retreating back.  “Chicken-shit...” She mutters, then turns back to Felan, jumping right back into their conversation. “Can bake you stupid cookies,”  She begins counting on her fingers, “ _an’_ I can stick things in the eye from far away, unlike _you,_ Stabby; just like I’ll do Coryph-y-puss, eh?  ...Oh! Not to mention a shoulder to snot on when you got all _whiney_ over _Cully-wully_ stompin’ all over your feelin’s when he wasn’t interested in nothin’ but ‘work’ or whatever, _remember?”_ Three enthusiastic fingers are held up and wiggled in front of Felan’s face.

Felan sighs.  “ _Yes._ Yes, I get it.”

“Guess _that's_ all bin solved, yeah?” She gestures wildly between Felan and the door to his chambers and giggles.

“I- I guess you’re right…”

“I know.  So, what, you and fancy breeches up there gonna feed those cookies I made to each other or somethin’ all romantic-like later?”

Felan practically chokes on air as he hears Dorian’s descending steps reaching the door.  “What? No! Will you _stop it?_ Just be normal about it, will you?”  Sera gives him a defiant scowl and crosses her arms, then relents.

“Oh fuuuck!  Fine! _Norrrmmallll._ Ughh.  Maybe next time I’ll just make you _normal_ cookies, you priss.”  Dorian opens the door just as Sera flicks Felan in the ear.

“Children!”  Dorian gives a few scolding clicks of his tongue at Felan and Sera after he comes through the door, and takes his place beside Felan once more.  Without another word from any of them, Felan leads the way down the main hall and Sera falls into step alongside him. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face when he looks over at Dorian - wondering if he, too, is suppressing the urge to lace their fingers as the backs of their hands and knuckles bump in time with each slight swing of their arms.  Suddenly, Felan catches Sera glaring at them from the corner of his eye when he looks straight ahead again.

She gives them an annoyed sigh.  “Frig, _you two are really in it, huh?”_

Knowingly or not, Dorian takes the bait.  “In _what,_ pray tell?  Actually, _no…_ I retract that question.”  He returns her glare as the three of them approach one of the long tables peppered with shiny platters of food, tea kettles, and candlesticks.

_“Ppbbfff!”_

After they take their seats, Dorian and Felan try to indulge in idle chit-chat with one another over a breakfast of rusk and jam and fresh goat’s cheese.  Felan stirs his tea idly, while leaning on an elbow, realising he’s staring dreamily at the man next to him. The sound of Dorian’s voice reaches his ears, but Felan’s brain only processes about every other word or so as he memorises all the minute little ways his vhenan’s face lights up animatedly no matter the subject of which he is speaking - the way his brows shoot up or waggle in excitement and emphasis, causing (and Felan would never admit as much) endearing wrinkles to interrupt the smoothness of his forehead; the exaggerated curl of his moustache when he grins crookedly; bejewelled fingers and thumb absentmindedly brushing along the corners of his mouth and soul patch for errant crumbs.  Felan wants to kiss him. Yes, _very badly._

Sera had been blessedly quiet, until just that moment.  An arm slaps across the table behind Felan, startling him to pivot in his seat.  Sera leans exaggeratedly to see passed him, directing a call to Dorian… apparently.  “Ay, flappy-robes!” She’s met with the annoyed peak of one dark eyebrow as Dorian stares passed Felan.

“If you’d any sense of fashion or even… _presentable_ garments, you’d know I am not wearing any _robes..._ flappy... or not, _Sera.”_ Felan begins to sense it’s going to be one of _those_ days for Dorian and Sera.  

Deciding to not let it break the relaxed mood he’s in, Felan holds his cup closer to his nose, enjoying the warm steam of black tea leaves that float into his senses, stirring them awake.  While waiting for the good-natured barbs to fly, Felan sits back in his chair to afford his friends easier access for their imminent verbal sparring match.

“Not right _now,_ you aren’t…” Giggles pepper Sera’s next words: “bet you left ‘em on Ickle’s floor inna big heap, yeah?  So, what’s it like, you and ‘im? ...Jousting?”

Felan sputters as he takes another sip from his cup.  His eyes rapidly scan the faces around them, and assured no one else heard, he snaps his attention on Sera.  “Who put you up to this?! _If you and Varric are taking-”_ But it’s _Dorian_ who interjects first, thankfully.

“Fewer horses, marginally.  More cheering, _definitely.”_

Felan is almost positive he’s just felt his soul leave his body.

But no, unfortunately he hasn’t died, because he definitely feels the bony knuckles that punch his shoulder.  He looks away from Sera, back to Dorian, wild-eyed. But his lover only shrugs noncommittally while popping a grape in his mouth.   _Betrayed._ He’s already been betrayed.

“ _Nice.”_  Sera’s enthusiastic voice in his heated ears again.  “So who’s the arrow an’ who’s the quiver?”

This time, Felan slams his tea down on the table, sloshing a bit of it, and shoots daggers in his friend’s direction.   _“SERA!”_ For some reason, he thinks looking to Dorian one more time will alert the man to come to his aid, valiantly, but Dorian just looks him dead in the eye, and hammers the last nail in the coffin belonging to Felan’s dignity with perfect nonchalance.

“Ah, no arrows involved either, I’m afraid… Though, there _was_ quite a bit of _quivering.”  The exaggerated curl of Dorian’s moustache when he grins crookedly_ is the last thing Felan wants to see right now.

“And may the Dread Wolf take you both…”  Felan glowers at his friends, then throws his face into his hands, groaning away his embarrassment, all the while Dorian and Sera share a hearty laugh at his expense.  He honestly can’t even find it in himself to be truly angry - no, if anything, Felan’s terribly happy Dorian is showing enough comfort in their relationship to joke, even while it’s being ferreted out in its infancy.  Dorian’s laugh, especially, breaks through Felan’s exasperation, dulling his frown.

Sera mocks vomiting with a finger pointing down her throat and a chorus of overly dramatic retching noises when Dorian brings his arm around Felan’s shoulder in a tight half-hug, and kisses him roughly against his temple.   _“Amatus, nothing_ wrong _with a bit of quivering… and you did quite_ a lot _of it last night.”_ As Dorian whispers close so that only Felan can hear, his lips and moustache ghost against the shell of his ear, and the warmth of his breath sends chills prickling across Felan’s skin.  “You’re being smug,” Felan mutters.

There’s a familiar twinkle in the man’s eye, and Felan realises his arm is still slung ‘round his shoulders.   _“Not without good reason, or do you not agree?”_  Their faces are intimately close now; Felan losing track of their surroundings for the briefest moment while they keep their voices in the low tones only reserved for the talk of lovers in bed.

Felan keeps his eyes on the table as he speaks to Dorian.  “I’ll not feed your ego, Dorian. _Especially not when you seem to ‘ave forgotten all the quivering and shaking I’d caused_ your _thighs much later into the night.”_ He turns to Dorian finally, smiling through his next words.   _“I believe the gentleness with which you sat upon your chair is cause enough for me to be_ quite _smug, myself… or are_ you _the only one allowed to be exceptional?”_

Dorian bites his lip and Felan feels a hand curl over his knee, passing over the inseam of his leggings as Dorian’s fingers inch upwards just enough to tease.  Not giving in, Felan keeps his face as calm as possible, if not slightly annoyed with the arch of his brow. Innocent looking grey-brown eyes implore his attention in an apologetic manner, but Dorian’s sinful voice betrays him.   _“Well, I suppose you’ll just have to do something about my ungratefulness, yes?  I’ve slighted you, and that wasn’t at all my intention. I’m not looking for you to feed my ego, Fae.  I will, however, not object to you taking me back upstairs and feeding me something_ exceptional _while I’m on my knees, begging your forgiveness.”_

A throat clearing prevents Felan from eagerly accepting Dorian’s suggestion by snatching him by his hair and dragging him back up to his room like some barbarian.  

Both men turn to see Cassandra looming behind their chairs, thin brows tucked firmly over her eyes.  Dorian’s arm quickly slips from Felan’s shoulders, beaten only by the swiftness with which he removed his hand on Felan’s leg at the first giveaway of Cassandra’s presence.

 “The cut of that longer gambeson is lovely for your figure!  Ah, and you _should_ wear blue more often, Cassandra!  ...Brings out the _disdain_ in your eyes…”

A muffled snort from Sera goes ignored, but Cassandra sneers and sucks her teeth at Dorian before directing her attention to Felan.

“Inquisitor, Leliana asked me to find you.  Once you are… finished here, please meet us in the war room at once.”

Smoothing his hair back, Felan grabs for his tea to further keep his nervous hands busy.  He wonders how much his friend witnessed of he and Dorian’s little display. “Right. Yes, I’ll be there momentarily.  May I ask what this is about?”

“She did not say,” Felan senses an unnatural unease about Cassandra as she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, crossing her arms.  “But it sounded as though this is something that needs your attention immediately.”

“Alright.  I understand.  Thank you, Cass.”  

Cassandra’s face softens a little, but there is still something grave hovering beneath those sharp features.  She nods once to Felan, then gives Dorian a lingering sidewards glance. “Do not tarry.”

When Cassandra walks on in the direction of Josephine’s office, Sera pipes up, “If you find out you gotta go somewhere with sand… I’m out.  Cold and snow, too.”

“Well, I’ll even agree with you on that one.” Felan smiles.  Beside him, Dorian squeezes his thigh before pushing his chair out to stand.  “We’ll catch up later, I’m sure?” He briefly cups the back of Felan’s neck, and thumbs over the corner of his jaw.   _“You know where to find me.”_ Dorian winks, and bids Sera a farewell via a bow, laughing when she hops up on her chair to return the gesture with a quick curtsey.  

Felan drags his hand across his face.  “Alright, I’m out of here, then…” Sera hops down from the chair as Felan stands.  

“What?  Too much fancy?  Not _normal_ enough, your Lordyship?”  Felan pats her on the shoulder.  “For you, my dear Sera? _Perfectly normal.”_ He calmly refills his tea, plops a sugar cube in, then turns on his heel, leaving Sera with smirk.

 

//

After changing back in his own room, Dorian walks through the rotunda, grabbing a book on his way to read in the gardens.  As he descended the stairs, he feels lighter than he had in a long time. He didn’t know it could feel this good to let bare who he was completely, without consequence.  

He stops to eye the pair of wolves on the walls upon the expanse of Solas’s large fresco.  The elf approaches him slowly, with a patronising smile on his face as he comes to stop beside Dorian.

“What do you know of the Dalish?”  Dorian asks him, eyes still scanning the strange, cryptic shapes and blocks of colours.

“You’ve a sudden interest in the culture your people tried so hard to bury?”

Dorian rounds on him.  “Let’s skip the bitter words and acerbic ‘pleasantries,’ shall we?  I have no agreement with the things my people did eons ago, nor do I condone their ludacris behaviours _now._ Forgive me for wanting to expand my knowledge of something that pertains to our cause with a simple query.”

Solas’s expression stays serene.  “Something that pertains to our cause?”

“Felan is Dalish.”

Moving in front of Dorian, Solas eyes him suspiciously, hands clasped behind his back, then moves on to take a seat at his desk.  “An interest in our cause, or a passing _personal_ interest in the one who heads it?”  Solas looks up with a knowing judgement in his eyes.

Just then, Cullen walks through the rotunda in his usual anxious rush.  Dorian understands he’ll be getting nowhere, well… _nowhere good,_ with Solas, so he abandons his curiosity in favour of following his friend.  “Ah, Commander!” He falls in step with Cullen, not bothering to give Solas a glance back.

“Dorian.  I haven’t the time to talk right now, I’m sorry.”

“Tut-tut, my dear friend, you misconstrue my ulterior motives,” Cullen keeps up his hurried pace through the main hall, stopping only give Dorian a tired look.  “I needed an out from an increasingly awkward and tense situation. Speaking of tense, I know you’re headed to a war table meeting, so I won’t keep you. Just do me a favour and defend my honour if you send Felan somewhere muddy, and he gets the brilliant idea to bring me along, will you?”

That earns him a small chuckle from Cullen.  “I’ll try my best, but no promises.”

“I’ll let you on your way.  Oh! I’m heading to the gardens now to read a while, then I was going to possibly retire to my room, early.  But… care for a game later if your meeting isn’t overly long?”

Cullen stares at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck before his gaze flicks back up to Dorian’s.  “I… I’m afraid I’m not feeling-” Dorian throws his hands up to stop Cullen - knowing where he’s going with this, and not wanting to have the man force himself to stammer around a painful burden.  “Say no more, _I understand._  Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.  But again, no promises, Pavus.”  Cullen smirks.

“Alright, alright.  Now, you can promise you’ll get some of that decoction from Fae for your migraines again, yes?”

“I- uh, yes… I probably should.  You’ve got a tall order for me today, haven’t you?”  

Dorian laughs and begins his retreat from his friend.  “Hah! Keeping you on your toes, _Commander!_  And I’m sure it is nothing compared to what you’ll be dealing with momentarily!”  He calls back to Cullen.

As Dorian heads back towards the shock of sunlight gleaming into the hall from the courtyard ahead of him, he overhears something that gives him pause.  On his right, two Orlesian nobles, looking much like over-decorated fondant cakes, chitter away - not even attempting to keep their voices hushed as he passes.  

“I _saw!_ I never understood why the Lord Inquisitor let him under the same roof to walk freely around the castle grounds, when we have _another magister_ in the holding cells below!  But _now!  Now it makes sense,_ does it not, Cecile??”  The man gesticulated like he was conducting a damned orchestra.

“Oh dear… I suppose you are right!  But, do you think it is…” Only _then_ did the woman whisper, _“blood magic?”_ Dorian feels a fire grow in his belly with each passing second he listens to these two benighted magpies.   _“Non!”_ the little shrew of a man exclaims as if _he’d_ been the one offended by her question!  “Surely _someone_ would have caught on and not let something so abhorrent go unnoticed here!  I am _telling you, Cecile,_ it is simply a _fetishistic thing!_ Magisters keep elven slaves for… _many things.”_ There was a disgusting smile in those words and it sends them both into quiet giggling.  Dorian has had enough.

He turns around, making sure his presence is known (though he’s almost entirely sure it was to begin with) with a muffled cough into his fist.  Dorian notices Varric approaching just then, shaking his head to silently ask Dorian to back down - _he’d heard too, then.  Perfect._ But Dorian can’t let this roll off his shoulders completely.  “Ahh, you _Orlesians,”_ he announces loudly, and Varric throws a dismissive hand his way as he goes back to his table by the large fireplace.  “Why hide your backbiting behind hands when you have such garish masks and frills to cower behind?”

“Keep on your way, _Tevinter…”_ Dorian assumes the man is scowling behind all that shiny silver.  He’s definitely scowling.

“Please, don’t let me ruin your _fun_ while you ponce about the place doing… why is it you’re here again?”

Oh, clearly he’s hit a _nerve!_ The Orlesian ass crosses his arms angrily, whilst his eager-ear picks up her skirts and scurries away to whatever rat hole she’d come out of, evidently not wanting her own faults buoyed to the surface. _“Tch._  You should bite your tongue!”  He pivots on his heel away from Dorian like a defiant child.   _“...really one to talk about being a_ ponce!”

“Yes, well, my face - _among other things -_ is much too pretty to cover up.  At least, the company I keep certainly _does approve.”_ Dorian shoulders passed him towards the gardens, feeling all at once victorious and grim at the same time.   _More dangerous to stay._

If this is just the reaction their relationship received from a couple people, what was to be the overall feeling from others within the Inquisition the more open he and Fae become?  Dorian didn’t need anyone distrusting Felan’s judgement or whether he was of sound mind just because he was on his arm now. And Felan _certainly_ did not need anyone believing he was under the influence of fucking blood magic!!   _Vishante kaffas!_ This is exactly what he was worried about… Dorian’s fears were being justified with a painful promptness he hadn’t quite been ready for.

After Felan’s meeting, he’d let him know this wasn’t a good idea.   _For his sake, and the Inquisition’s.  This is bigger than just the two of us._

 

//

“Inquisitor, I am well aware of your personal contention with your clan, but this matter seemingly goes above just securing their safety.”  Leliana slides the unravelling scroll across the war table, in the spaces between little pawns and spindly daggers. Felan can only stare at it as if touching the parchment might burn him; a hated thing.  He can never get away.

Josephine’s lilting voice joins in.  “Leliana is right, I’m afraid. We do not necessarily wish to push the issue, but something doesn’t seem right, Your Worship.  If you read the letter, you’ll see what we mean.” She sighs, eyeing Felan, and then the scroll. Felan shoves it back in Leliana’s direction.  “Read it to me, Leliana.”

She tilts her head quizzically, making Felan think of one of her large, intelligent looking ravens.   _“Please,_ for I cannot.  Just- read it for me…”  Cullen shifts uncomfortably across from him - his hidden pity and knowledge of Felan’s illiteracy infuriating him all the more.   _What a wonderful morning this has been…_

“As you wish.”  Leliana unravels the scroll and Felan is ill-prepared for the squall his emotions are immediately being subjected to at the utterance of his name, coupled with his father’s.

 

_Felan Fen’an,_

 

_Firstly, I hope this finds you using your wits of your own free will, without the influence of this Inquisition you have so conveniently taken up with, and Creators know what else._

_Our keeper does not wish to cause you worry, says you have much weighing on your shoulders already.  But I cannot sit idly by any longer. I see the fear and worry in my clansmen’s eyes with each day that passes.  The strain it is putting on your mother and sister. I would hope you still hold an attachment to them at the very least.  Keeper Deshanna and Vie say you have not yet answered their last letter, and to be patient. But I see no reason to wait. Time is hardly on our side, lethal’lin._

_I had led us away to a valley on the outskirts of Wycome, where the clusters of rifts were few.  But it seems the shemlen are always at our backs whenever we find time to breathe. These bandits are unlike those we have dealt with in the past, and we find little time to tend to our wounded and mend armour in between attacks.  They are_ _relentless _ _and cunning.  At night I feel their eyes watching us.  You, most of all, should know the unease this causes us.  I hope you have not forgotten in your time away, mir fenor da fenlin._

 _Moving the clan once more is far too dangerous at this time.  I implore you to silence your disfavour with us and we ask after your help, and the Inquisition’s in this matter, in whatever way you are able.  I would venture to Wycome for aid, but I do not know who to trust, and as you know, I must watch over the clan for the time being. Vie has offered, but I will not allow it.  Please let your words come on swift wings, and do not betray what trust we have left._ _Ma halani_ _._

_Dar’eth, Felan.  Sal sura, ir abelas.  Sule sal harthir, mi’nas’sal’in._

 

 

  * __Aridhel_ _Conrí_ _Lavellan__



 

 

The last words Leliana fumbles through, albeit only slightly, violently shake Felan’s resolve from him like a serpent’s newly shedding skin being torn away too soon.  The cup in his grasp cracks, then shatters in a tiny little explosion of clay and hot liquid. Felan doesn’t even realise he’s bleeding until he registers Josie’s gasp and Cassandra and Cullen rushing over to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ma halani = "help me"  
> **mir fenor da fenlin ≈ “my precious, dear little wolf”  
> ***Dar’eth, Felan. Sal sura, ir abelas Sule sal harthir, mi’nas’sal’in ≈ “Go safely/be safe, Felan. Come to me again, I am sorry. Until we meet again, the knife in my soul.” Aridhel is basically telling Felan, "Be safe, Felan. Come back to me, I am sorry. Until we are together again, I am no longer whole/a part of me is now missing."
> 
> Chapter title from Thrice's song, "The Messenger" and summary lyrics come from their song, "Moving Mountains."
> 
> Comments & kudos appreciated as always!<3


	5. Lachesism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **lachesism**  
>  _n. the desire to be struck by disaster—to survive a plane crash, to lose everything in a fire, to plunge over a waterfall—which would put a kink in the smooth arc of your life, and forge it into something hardened and flexible and sharp, not just a stiff prefabricated beam that barely covers the gap between one end of your life and the other._  
>  \--Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Heartache, one more chance for you  
>  All those things in the days before  
> Memory, leaving what you knew  
> Former times, how they follow you_
> 
> _No more false promises  
>  Make your stand again  
> Take these rings, these subtle things  
> All those things we planned  
> Go once more down that road  
> Take the easy way  
> Just one more time, say those words  
> Wake me oh, so softly"_
> 
>    
> *Warnings for descriptions of a panic/anxiety attack and non-graphic mention of blood/injury.  
> **Any Elvhen used, not taken directly from the game, will again be translated in the ending notes (if I seem to have forgotten something, please let me know!).

 

_“ **Why?** ” _

“What good am I to anyone here, really?  I see it in all their faces… _Disappointment._ I’m worthless to the clan, anymore.”  Felan settled back down onto the blankets, watching the stars swim in their pools of violet-black ink, bleeding out across the meadows.  A beautiful plagued ocean of cosmos reflecting over them. He threw his arm over his eyes and sighed. This was not a conversation he'd wanted to have _tonight._ He shouldn’t have said anything.

 _“Need I really remind you of your worth to me?”_ The pain in Aridhel’s words rang through Felan’s chest like a bell toll. Felan moved his arm and watched as Aridhel’s dark brows knit together to form a shadow of heartbreak over his deep-set eyes.

“I see it in _your_ face, too, Ari.”  Reaching up, he brushed a wave of hair, white as his own, back behind Aridhel’s ear; Felan’s touch reassuring where his words could not.  He knew everyone blamed him for his father’s death, as well as the death of a few others of their clan that day. Those who were braver than Felan could ever hoped to have been.  Even if his mother and sister did not voice it, Felan knew they too, felt the same. Felan was the last thing his clansmen needed. He’d only proved he could not protect them, and his presence was just a daily reminder of how he’d failed them.  Felan didn’t deserve to be here. They had Aridhel as Master of the clan now, besides. Aridhel let nothing get in his way, and never backed down - even now.

He narrowed his eyes down at Felan and grabbed the hand still stroking his hair.  “You aren’t giving me very good reasons as to _why_ you think you must leave.   _Prove them wrong._  I… you know I can’t do any of this without you.  Let me _help,_ vhenan.  And you’ll lead them again.  Let me help you show them you are still the son of Fen’an.  That they still _need you.”_

Aridhel could speak pretty wishes all he wanted, but Felan would not budge on his desire to leave.  He knew the clan’s opinion of him would not change, and he could hardly blame them. “I am a liability, _a stain._  You’re just being _blind._ I’ll train the other hunters in everything I know, and then I’m gone.”

This time, Aridhel sat up quickly, pulling the thickly woven blanket down to Felan’s hips in doing so.  The slight humidity in the air brought a damp coolness that chilled his exposed skin. The green scent of dew was lifted to his nostrils as Aridhel leaned across the grass; rustling the tiny droplets, collecting them on his skin, while he reached for his rucksack nearby.  “Perhaps there is another way,” Aridhel spoke, hands busy in his leather bag. “to convince you that you are needed here, da fenlin.” Felan watched gooseflesh rise along his lover’s spine, and reached out to ghost his finger down the dusky-blue vallaslin that lead down to Aridhel’s tailbone.

Once Aridhel turned back to Felan, he was holding a long, somewhat thin rope, maybe a yard in length.  A mixture of pride and happiness flitted over his face, and he scooted on his knees closer to Felan, letting the rope slowly pool upon Felan’s stomach.

Upon closer inspection, Felan saw it was made from two cords, twined together - one of a deep, bluish hue; the other, a smooth silver.  When he looked up at Aridhel, he held in his open palms two trinkets, seemingly carved from pale, sun-bleached bone. One, a crescent moon, attached by an intricate metal bale to the end of the silver cord; and a howling wolf was on the end of the blue cord.

“I carved these, and Vie helped a bit with the rest.” Aridhel said nervously.

It was a Dalish handfasting cord.

Aridhel had about five years on Felan, but Creators, could he be naïve.  Felan didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what _Ari_ expected him to say.  They’d been together for five springs now, everyone expected them to take vows.  It was no matter they’d have no offspring to add to the now small-ish clan - their ever-blooming young love was celebrated like any other.

But did Aridhel really think this could change Felan’s mind so easily?  Did he understand what it truly meant? To bind oneself to another for good or ill?

Felan grabbed the little carvings from Aridhel’s hands and pulled him down on top of him.   _“Just come with me, Ari,”_ he whispered, and kissed him before he could protest or answer.

 

******

 

“Ari… my mind is made up!  I’m not strong enough to protect any of you.  I dream of that look in your eyes, _every fucking night, da’mis -_ I dream of you running up to me… me watching as those shemlen…  And I… _I just fucking stand there!”_  Felan broke into another sob against Aridhel’s chest.  They’d been fighting like wyverns over a rotted carcass for the passed week now about Felan’s leaving.   _Tugging, tearing._ But as the days needled down to three, then two, and now one, Aridhel lost all spark to argue.

Instead, he ran his fingers fingers through Felan’s hair, down between his shoulder blades - soothing.  Felan hated him for it, for a touch so affectionate. He wanted Aridhel to push him away so he could selfishly cut ties with him; anything to wash away the guilt.  He hated him for not agreeing to come with him, most of all.

“So you run?”  Aridhel’s voice was hollow.  Felan knew the question was more accusatory than rhetorical.  “Damn it, Felan… _Let me be your strength.”_

Lifting himself up to straddle Aridhel’s hips, Felan stared down at his lover; the pointed tip of his nose and the whites of his eyes were pink with held back emotion.  Fenedhis, he was stunning. Like the night Felan had confessed his want to leave, they were alone. Only this time, they weren't in some lush, hilly meadow with the quiet, earthen sounds around them.  No, this time the dull murmurs of their clansmen were a distant distraction outside the scarlet canvas of the makeshift tent Aridhel had constructed for them - for _this_ night.  Their last.

They were far enough away to afford themselves some privacy, but everyone knew to leave them be.  Everything was sombre and empty. Tomorrow, Felan would say his farewells to his mother and sister, to those he called friends once, and those he’d called mentors; even the young ones who had for some reason, looked up to _him._

He’d say farewell to deep, dark emerald eyes; to his first and only love.

“I need you to be strong for _them_ now.  They need _you.”_  Felan tried to keep his voice clear as tears continued to fall, unbidden.

Surging upward, Aridhel clutched at him, and they kissed as if imprinting all the words they wouldn’t be able to say any longer.   _Tomorrow would be different,_ and each day forward after that.  Even still, they tried with thin voices and heavy words.  “ _Stay”_ lead to a pleading, “ _Please come with me,”_ and then a final _“You know I can’t.”_ As Felan tugged Aridhel’s hair free of the leather thong holding it up, they fell backwards upon thick wolf pelts and blankets.  

Promises met quick deaths on their lips.  Fingers dug into soft wool and wiry fur. Hips rutted.  Aridhel’s hair spilled, white like rippling rapids over the dips and folds of the dark blankets pillowing his head.  

The smell of clear flowing water nearby and oil - bitter and sweet and medicinal - from an opening clay jar.

Curling over Aridhel’s body, Felan spread his legs wider with the movement of his own body and eased in to the hilt, silently begging a sigh from Aridhel’s lips at his ear.   He made love to the man as if he were trying to leave an indelible mark upon him, in him - _mine, mine, mine._ Teeth sank into tanned and freckled flesh, and Felan had never felt denial more than he did in this very moment.  

His left hand slapped and clawed around the cold, wet earth, dragging the dirt from beneath his nails across the blanket in search of Aridhel’s hand.  Gripping it tight, he rocked into him deeper. Beneath him, Aridhel whimpered and sobbed, _“Emma lath,”_ until Felan kissed him quiet.  He couldn’t hear it, not right now.  

 

******

 

“You know I’m almost as good a hunter as you, and I’ll find you myself and skin you alive if you don’t visit us at least every couple months?”  Vienne smiled through her tears as she hugged her little brother tighter.

“I wouldn’t be a very warm pelt, Vie… but, “ Felan mocked being squeezed to death, his voice going strained.  “if you insist!” They pulled away from each other, and Vie lifted her chin up as she inhaled deeply and put on her “serious voice.”  “I’ll miss you, idiot. Dar’eth shiral, little brother.”

One last time, Felan eyed the similar scar they shared along the bridge of her nose - now wet with brushed away tears.  He cleared his throat, and uttered a, “And you as well” in Elvhen before turning to his mother - she was strong, so terribly strong, and Felan envied her for it.  

The gentle breeze whipped errant strands of deep auburn and silver hair about her lightly lined face - but not a tear in sight.  His mother held him at arm's length for a moment, and studied his face as if memorising each feature and minute detail, or perhaps wondering where she’d went _wrong._ Felan had most of his father’s looks, but he and Vie both shared his mother’s large, pale eyes.  Eyes that now went glassy as she bit down on her bottom lip. He couldn’t bare it, so Felan brought her into his arms; his last protective gesture as Felan Fen’an Lavellan for her.  

A whispered Elvhen blessing was said to him as his mother kissed the side of his face.  Felan hugged her close again, mindful of the sharp jutting angles of his leathers, and before she let him go, his mother quietly spoke one final thing that unmade him.

“I forgive you, and so does _he.  I know it.”_

Felan felt his face crumple and he sobbed against her cinnamon-sugar hair.  He nodded as she rubbed his back, and Felan slowly disentangled himself from her always-warm embrace, trying desperately to reform a scrap of self-command.

Turning around, he saw his family and Keeper Deshanna give him more of a wide berth from the edges of his vision.  

Aridhel crashed into him, almost knocking them both to the ground.  His hair was down - waves made tight from a braid - just as Felan loved it most - and he threaded his fingers through the silver silk as he held the back of Aridhel’s head against his shoulder.  All notion of composure was lost to the winds as they held one another. Aridhel tugged at Felan’s armour, trying to grip more, more, _more_ of his heart before it slipped through his fingers.

“‘Ma’len, let me see you,” Felan sniffled.  Aridhel only cried harder at the term of endearment.  Each shaky breath, each whimper tore another piece from Felan’s heart.  Finally, he arched himself back enough to bring Aridhel’s face into view, tilting it up between his palms to look into his eyes.

Eyes the colour of serpentine made smooth by a violent river current.  Felan would never forget them.

“‘Ma vhenan… “ Aridhel could barely speak.  Sucking in air through his teeth, he bit back more tears with a grimace and reached for one of the hands cupping his face.  Silver and blue caught Felan’s eye; Aridhel had the handfasting cord wrapped thick around his hand. Felan shifted his grip at Ari’s jaw to wriggle his fingers beneath the rope, and beneath Aridhel’s shaking palm.

Sighing, Felan whispered on a quaking breath along Aridhel’s lips, _“I love you.”_ Their lips met, harsh and frantic, and neither cared for whether or not they were alone this time.  Pulling away, Felan rested his forehead against Aridhel’s, against the vallaslin so like his own. Something he’d carry with him the rest of his days.

And then, “Take it with you…” Ari was unraveling the cord from their hands; little bone sculptures knocking together with the dull _clink_ of a wooden chime in the breeze.   _“Please, Felan.”_ Felan bunched up the cords and tucked them away safely beneath his thick leather cuirass.

He put his hand over his heart, and attempted a wan smile.  “I’ll keep them safe… Sul tael tasalal - _until we should meet again.”_

On his toes, Aridhel wrapped his arms about Felan’s neck, and kissed him again.  Just as Felan dug his fingers into Ari’s sides, posessively, it was over. Aridhel took one step back.  “‘Ma’sa’lath,” he said, voice gone grave, expression gone cold. He spoke the rest in sneered Elvhen, low enough that only the two of them were sure to hear.  “My happiness, my person, the _knife_ in my soul, _and_ at my back… I hope to never see you again. **_Coward_** _.”_ If it weren’t for their meager audience, Felan is sure Aridhel would’ve spit venom like a viper with the last word.  It hit him and washed over his entire being like a deadly landslide.

Aridhel walked away from him on unsteady legs and, throwing his hood up and slinging his pack over his shoulder, Felan walked away from them all.

 

******

 

The strange snickering-like sounds of so many large, sharp legs against stone, and the soft grind of chitin were at his heels now as Felan tried desperately to scale the rocky structure before him.  A woman’s dissonant voice in his head, telling him to hurry, to keep going. He kicked back at his arachnoid aggressors as they changed shape, growing claw-like arms, reaching for his ankles with their little taloned fingers.  Exoskeletons morphed to shem-armour and one of them latched onto something snagging along Felan’s side.

Just then, a humanoid burst of light appeared before a swirling green mass just above him, and the woman’s voice was in his head again - _so loud, so frightened for him._ The tug at his side grew more persistent, and Felan grabbed one of his small throwing knives at his belt to cut himself loose.  But when he looked down to do so as his blade sliced through, Felan realised one of these nightmarish creatures had hold of Aridhel’s handfasting cord.  Somehow, in his efforts to flee this dark hellscape, and the creatures within, it had fallen from beneath the pads of leather in his armour - where it had always been safe, all these years - to tangle and loop around belts and straps.  

As soon as Felan’s knife cut, he watched in some sick slow-motion as the ribbons of colour, the little white wolf and crescent moon, fell beneath the creeping stampede of oily black legs.  A sound escaped his throat as if he’d been run through.

The woman’s echoing voice snapped his eyes back to the summit of the craggy staircase.  She was _near._   _She_ was the light.  Suddenly, her hand reached down for him, and Felan hoisted himself up the rocks one last time. _Felan reached out._

 

******

 

Large beams of dusty light break through the dilapidated hall outside the war room.  Sheer, bright curtains of sun warm Felan’s back as his knees buckle and give way, sending him sprawling on his ass atop slabs of rubbled castle wall.  His hands shake as they cup over his mouth to stifle the breaths that heave too fast from his lungs. Something wet smears across his lips and chin.

Cullen’s face limned in gold.  Gold hair gone white in the sunlight.  Eyes a burning amber as he kneels in front of Felan, clasping his leather-clad hand over Felan’s knee.  Worry in his brow.

“Inquisitor?”  A woman’s voice in his head again.  No, no, _no._ His lungs hurt.  A small, suffocated cry escapes his throat, but not passed his fingers tight over his gasping mouth.  The taste of warm copper.

“-wrong with him?!?”  Cullen’s mouth moves. Felan’s ears ring with his own pulse, shutting out any idea of listening.  Cullen turning to his left. _Frightened._ A woman’s voice again, _to his left._

Gloved hands - _not_ Cullen’s - one petting at the nape of his neck, the other gently prying his hands from his mouth.  “Inquisitor… _Felan.  Felan, look at me.”_ Dizzy, Felan looks to the source of the voice.  Leliana’s beautiful, soft features blur before him.  Is the hall tilting?

“Should I get a healer?”  Cullen, more urgent.

“No, his hand will be fine, it doesn’t look too deep.  Felan, please just listen to my voice, alright?” Felan nods, clenching his fists; feels the dull, then sharp ache in his right.  The slick blood as his fingers dip into his palm. He focuses on that. Focuses on the voices.

Cullen stands.  “I understand that!  Maker’s sake! I meant… for… he can’t _breathe, Leliana!”_

“He is having a panic attack, _Commander._ Surely you know what that is like, do you not?”  Leliana shoots him a glare, then softens again when she turns back to Felan.  She steadies the back of Felan’s wobbly head as she continues to speak to him in hushed tones.  “I need you to breathe with me, Felan. Follow as I do, yes?”

Following her direction of extended inhales and exhales through his nose and mouth, the dark webbings seemingly entrapping Felan’s chest and mind slowly clear away.  In front of him, Cullen paces, worrying his forehead with his hand. It’s going to drive Felan mad all over again, just looking at him. He tries to focus on Leliana’s touch and voice, but the repetitive sound of Cullen’s heavy boots on stone keep pulling Felan’s focus.

 _“Cullen.  Please, just stand still!”_ The sound of Felan’s gravelly voice is like an alarm bell, and Cullen nearly trips over himself bringing his feet to a quick stop.  He rushes back to crouching in front of him.

“By the Void, Felan… are you alright?  You’ve given m- _us_ quite the scare.”  Cullen reaches out, then stops himself, instead brushing his hand through his hair as he stands again.

 _Is he alright?_ Fuck, if Felan knows… He still feels like he’s drowning in whatever emotions had overtaken him in the war room after hearing that… letter.  Scream, cry, run, _hit something_ \- Felan wants to do it all.

Leliana asks him then, “We need to do something about your hand now, alright?  But is there anything else we can get you?”

Turning his head down and away from Cullen, Felan stares down at the tiny pebbles of limestone and mortar between his legs.  For a moment, his mind falls over itself until it lands into one safe thought. Keeping his head down, Felan croaks out, _“Dorian.  Please get Dorian.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to give another thanks to Project Elvhen by FenxShiral here on AO3 for my resourcing!
> 
> *"da fenlin" = "little wolf"  
> **"da'mis" = "little blade"  
> ***"emma lath" = "my love"  
> ****"'ma'len" = Husband/boyfriend. A much more poetic variant. Lit. Myself, my male person  
> *****"‘ma’sa’lath" = "my one love"
> 
> Lyrics in beginning notes are from "Negotiations" by The Helio Sequence.


	6. For the Both of Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do you come from Heaven or rise from the abyss,  
>  Beauty? Your gaze, divine and infernal,  
> Pours out confusedly, benevolence and crime,  
> And one may for that, compare you to wine._
> 
> _You contain in your eyes the sunset and the dawn;  
>  You scatter perfumes like a stormy night;  
> Your kisses are a philtre, your mouth an amphora,  
> Which make the hero weak and the child courageous._
> 
> _...The dazzled moth flies toward you, O candle!  
>  Crackles, burns and says: 'Blessed be this flambeau!'  
> The panting lover bending o'er his fair one  
> Looks like a dying man caressing his own tomb._
> 
> _Whether you come from Heaven or from Hell, who cares,  
>  O Beauty! Huge, fearful, ingenuous monster!  
> If your regard, your smile, your foot should open for me  
> An Infinite I love, but have not ever known?_
> 
> _From God or Fiend, Siren or Sylph? Needless  
>  The answer — fae with the velvet eyes,  
> You shed your perfume, rhythm and sheen,  
> To make the world less hideous, and Time less grim._
> 
> -Charles Baudelaire, _"Hymne À La Beauté"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... this chapter got away from me...
> 
> *Warnings for brief mentions of blood, injury, injury care, and battle.
> 
> If you're reading this fic, do I really need to give warnings for smut? Nah, didn't think so ;)  
> That's what tags are for, anyway!

 

The sun is warm on his skin, and the smell of wildflowers, and whatever medicinal herbs Felan had planted, fill Dorian’s senses as he sits, one ankle propped on a knee, relatively engrossed in the heavy book laid on his thigh.

Bitter, angry thoughts of his father and the baseless opinions of those frilly ignoramuses still wriggle their way through his concentration, but other than that, the time to himself is enjoyable.  People milling about the gardens pay him no mind, and Dorian is glad to become part of the scenery for one of the few times in his life.

The loud trample of a single person’s feet hitting the grass and cobblestones alerts Dorian a little too late before the Lady Seeker is hollering his name in front of him.

“Dorian!  You must come quickly!” Cassandra pants, startling Dorian.  

Snapping his book shut he curses at her with a bewildered look.  “Blighted…! What is it? What’s going on?” A pull of worry tugs hard in Dorian’s chest when a small look of fear colours Cassandra’s usually stoic face.

For a moment, she looks around them, then more quietly, and firmly she says, _“It’s the Inquisitor-”_ Immediately, Dorian is on his feet, gently pulling Cassandra closer by the arm as they walk quickly.

“What’s happened?” He tries to keep his voice calm and impersonal as they head through the garden.

“He is fine now, mostly.  But… he asked after you. And given his state, I suppose none of us were in a position to argue, it seems.”

“His _state?”_

Cassandra rolls her eyes and pushes at Dorian’s back for him to move when his steps slow. “Frankly, I don’t wish to explain where we can be overheard.  You’ll see…”

 

Dorian feels like a prisoner being led to his cell following the Seeker’s sure strides into Josephine’s office.   _To the war room, then,_ he thinks with a lump of dread lodging firmly in his throat when Cassandra continues on, pushing open the door to the sunlit hall.

He was blindingly ill-prepared for the scene before him.

Cullen and Josephine stand near the war room, speaking quietly together, both looking equally fretful; the light of a torch shadowing each frowning line in their foreheads and brows.  When Dorian notices Felan, he barely picks up on Leliana crouching beside him. His friend sits slouched forward in a pile of dusty rubble, arms slung lazily over his bent knees - looking every part like he belonged in that broken heap of stone.  But something in Dorian’s heart fractures apart when Felan raises his low hanging head from between his knees.

Their eyes meet and at first, Dorian baulks at the very idea of running over to him - considering their audience - no matter how badly he wants to.  But at the heartwrenching sight of _his amatus -_ and against his better judgement - he says _fuck it,_ and jogs over to Felan.

Half-falling, half-sliding to his knees in front of him, Dorian’s poleyns make the tight screech of metal against stone.  Immediately, he reaches for a handkerchief from his robes to blot at the drying blood on Felan’s chin and bottom lip. For a moment, Felan only stares at him blankly, then jerks his head back a little ways.

“It’s fine.  I’m _fine,_ Dorian.  It’s not from my mouth,”  he says impatiently, then holds up his bloodied right hand.

Dorian scowls at him.  “Oh, yes, _fine are you?”_ He wipes at Felan’s mouth a bit more roughly in rebuke.

Beside them, Leliana lets out an amused huff of air and grins.  “I don't think it's motherly touch the Inquisitor wanted, Dorian,” she says quietly and rises to stand with Cassandra.  “A few shallow cuts that will heal quickly with proper bandaging,” she informs him.

Dorian cocks an eyebrow at his lover.  “I had a battle with a teacup.” Felan shrugs.

Scoffing, Dorian tucks the soiled handkerchief back away. “Can you stand?”  

Steadying himself on Dorian's shoulders, Felan is eased up off the ground, and Dorian is immediately met with a tight embrace.   _“Take me upstairs, please,”_ Felan whispers against his neck.  Dorian nods against his cheek almost imperceptibly.  

“If it’s all the same to my dear advisors,” Felan turns away from Dorian, addressing them, “I’d like to continue discussing this… matter, at a later time.  Unless I am needed for anything else at the moment?”

Josephine takes a few steps towards him.  “Nothing as pressing such as this, no. You may come to my office later and we can set up another discussion on it.”  Before Felan and Dorian turn to go, she raises her hand as if to speak once more. “Inquisitor, I… well, _do_ take care of that hand.  And please, rest.”

“Thank you, Josie, I will.”

They pass through back into the home-y warmth of Josephine’s office, and Dorian stops Felan, reaching for his wrist to inspect his hand.  “Hold on a moment before you drip a trail of blood everywhere.” Dorian retrieves the ivory - and now bright red - handkerchief from his robes again and wipes the back of Felan’s hand where thin little crimson lines had begun trickling down and away from the wounds.  Gently, he presses the wad of stained silk into Felan’s palm and asks him to clutch it tight.

“I’m sorry,” Felan mutters.

“Come now, I’m not going to bemoan the loss of one damned hanky, Fae-”

“Not that.  I’m a mess, Dorian…”  Felan gazes at him with eyes that are brimming with tears and a wretched earnestness.  One tear falls, quick across his vallaslin, then teeters at the edge of his jaw.

“Another thing we have in common,” Brushing away the tear with his thumb, Dorian guides his hand up to the side of Felan’s face.  “Kindred spirits, remember?” That earns him a watery smile.

The handle of the door behind them jangles and Cassandra steps through, closing it behind her.  Dorian and Felan break apart like two guilty teenagers caught in the act by their parents. Thankfully, she doesn’t acknowledge anything, so they carry on their way through the door to the great hall.  “Dorian,” _Ah, there it is._ But her voice is soft, tentative.  “May I speak with you a moment?” Felan gives Dorian a searching look, but Dorian simply tells him he’ll meet him upstairs soon enough.

“It is not my place to say,” she starts, once they're alone in the office.

“Let me guess, you’re going to anyway, though.   _Aren’t you?”_

Surprisingly, Cassandra holds back her usually distrustful leer for him remarkably well.  “I… He trusts you a great deal, that is clear. And for a long time, I have seen the care and… _affection,_ you hold for him.  Lavellan is strong, Dorian, but something is broken, beneath.  But I’m not sure what it is. I worry for him, but he has yet to lead us astray.   _Truthfully,_ I worry less about his decisions and calls of judgement these days, and more about his fortitude for all of this after a time.”

A mocking gasp comes from Dorian as he throws his hand over his heart.  “Lady Cassandra, you _do_ have a heart, after all!”  This time, she _does_ scowl at him.

“And _you_ are of such warm character, _Tevinter?”_ She crosses her arms and looks away towards Josephine’s hearth.  “Look, he… he has come to be like a younger brother to me, and-” Turning back to Dorian, she fixes him with a look that’s neither cold nor judgemental.  “Just… Hold him close, Dorian. There may be few things left in this world with which we are able, thanks to the Breach and Corypheus.” Were they that obvious already?  He supposes they were, this morning. Dorian gapes at Cassandra a little, not knowing how to respond. _“Don’t look at me like that,_ I’m not stupid.  And word travels these halls quickly, be mindful of that… Lavellan has not been, in the past.  Being able to find someone in a time of war while you fight for the same cause is all a bit… romantic, I suppose.”  She stares back into the crackling flames with a quiet sigh.

Dorian finally recovers himself a bit.  “So, let me get this straight… You see Felan like a little brother, _and_ find this all quite romantic?  And if I’m not mistaken, you also seem - well, do I detect a smidge of _happiness_ for Felan and I, Lady Cassandra?!”

She points a finger squarely at his perfectly aquiline nose.   _“And you would do well not to speak of it to him.”_

“Of course not.”  He backs away with an innocent grin tugging at his mouth.

“Now _go._  He needs you…”

Before heading out through the door, Dorian looks back over his shoulder at her.  “Oh, Cassandra? I know I’m supposed to be playing the role of the evil, unscrupulous Tevinter magister around here and all that rot, but… I promise you my people aren’t all repugnant cultists and slavers.  I know I’m certainly not. And… I’d sooner fall on your well-crafted blade than betray Felan. Despite _appearances,_ my people care - _deeply._  About everything.  We have no reserve, not in war... and not in _love.”_

Her face loses its grimness, and she nods, turning on her heel back towards the war room.

 

Up the stairs to Felan’s tower, Dorian feels the slight nip of fear.  He doesn’t think he can bear to see his friend break again. The curtains are drawn, with only the candelabras on either side of the bed lit, and Dorian feels the shadows hanging heavy in each corner of Fae’s room as he reaches the top step.  

Lying across the width of the bed, Felan stares forward blankly, his wounded hand curled against his chest.  Dorian gestures to the depressing darkness in every direction. “This isn’t going to help how you’re feeling, Fae.  Though I know all too well it certainly seems like it does in the moment.” He sighs and walks over to one of the tall windows near Felan’s desk and throws open the heavy, gold jacquard curtains to let in a little more light.  He walks towards the bed, stopping at the foot of it, properly blocking Felan’s view of the nothingness he seems intent on staring into.

“Felan, what happened down there?”  Dorian asks and takes a seat near him.  Slowly, Felan pushes himself up, but doesn’t meet Dorian’s eyes.  “You’ll think differently of me.” His lover’s voice is a rasping croak now, and Dorian wants to shake Felan for thinking anything could possibly change his opinion of him.

“You, and you alone, have seen me at some of my worst moments, unfortunately.  So, _try me._ And let’s get your hand cleaned up.”  Fluttering about the room, Dorian lights the fireplace and sets the teakettle over the flames to heat, then empties out the old water in Felan’s wash basin over the balcony.  Felan merely watches him carry on, numbly. “I’ll have to grab bandages from the infirmary, I suppose…” Dorian says under his breath while he sets the porcelain bowl on the small, round table next to the settee.  

Apparently seeing what Dorian means to do, Felan rises from the bed finally, and retrieves a clean rag from his washroom, then comes to rest upon the settee.   He fiddles idly with the bloodied handkerchief in his hand until Dorian plucks it from his grasp, unceremoniously tossing it in the fireplace. “You’ll ah, probably want to change… there is blood on your tunic.”  Dorian turns to Felan and shrugs with a grin. “Just a _thought.”_

Without a word, Felan stands and unlaces his shirt, then tugs it over his head with ease, letting the embroidered, chocolate-coloured fabric pool on the rug.  Dorian instantly recognises a familiar storm in his lover’s cool, blue eyes. He takes in the sight of Felan as if for the first time, and watches the subtle twitch in his stomach muscles, the way one corner of his mouth curves while taking two steps in Dorian’s direction.

“Shame, that,” Felan’s voice is wry as he speaks.  “Here I was hoping to seduce you with the look of some bloody, valiant warrior.”

He’s stalling, and Dorian knows this, but chuckles at the attempt. “Well, it’s a much better look when it isn’t _your_ blood.  And… I suppose I’ll have to show you that you needn’t seduce me with all that unnecessary folly, yes?”  

Neither man nor elf hear the door open below them at the foot of the stairwell.  However, Dorian does catch the footfalls of the commander as he ascends the last of the steps.  Cullen simply gawks at Dorian, then at a shirtless Felan only a handful of feet away from him. Dorian is the first to break the awkward silence when he sees Cullen’s hands occupied with a roll of cotton bandages and a small glass jar of something putridly green.

“You can set those on the table there, if you’d like.  Thank you, Cullen.” Dorian gathers up one end of his robe to grab the handle of the teakettle after removing it from over the fire.  Cullen remains fixed on Dorian for a few seconds longer, and Dorian swears he sees something sad and regretful in those amber eyes. Then the man clears his throat and trails behind Dorian.

“Right, um… I- uh, decided to make a stop at the infirmary to grab these for you.” Cullen only addresses Felan, though his eyes dart to the floor frequently.  “This is uh, elfroot salve,” He holds up the jar before setting it on the table. “But you probably already knew that... One of the healers mentioned you might still have some, but to deliver it to you just in case.”

 _Curious,_ Dorian muses briefly.

“I appreciate it, Cullen.”

Dorian watches their exchange while carefully pouring some of the hot water into the porcelain basin.  In his mannerisms, Cullen is fidgety and unsure at the same time, not like his usual demeanor. Dorian knows his lighter side, but this… the way he fights the smile pulling at his lips, the tinge of pink at his cheeks and neck, the stammering words - he’s showing everything Dorian _feels._ All of the blighted symptoms of a man in love.

_And so, the rumours had been true._

He speaks up,  “Fae, do you have any more of that tea on hand that helped Cullen’s headaches?”  he asks, glancing over his shoulder on his way back to the hearth. A faintly shocked look suddenly fills Cullen’s face, replacing the blush that had been there.  

“Your migraines?  Are they getting bad again?”  Felan asks him.

“Just the passed few nights or so.  Despite the taste, the... tea does seem to take the edge off, I’ll admit.”  Then, more quietly he tells Felan, “No fevers for a good while now, though. I’ve been having mildly better days for longer, thank the Maker.”

Felan quickly crosses the room to a shelf on one of his many tome-scarce bookcases where he has several small vases and urns of varying metals lined up.  With his unwounded hand, he selects one and sets it on the desk, then reaches in to grab a handful of tea sachets for Cullen. The man takes them with obvious gratitude.  He seems ready to bid both Felan and Dorian a goodbye, but halts a moment before descending the stairs.

“Inquisitor,  I ah… I know it’s your decision in the end, especially because these are _your_ people, but I would politely suggest not hesitating long.  These bandits don’t sound like the normal ilk, what with the way they have been continually attacking and seemingly _tracking_ your clan… If what your fellow clansman describes is to be believed.”

Dorian narrows his eyes questioningly at Felan, but he doesn’t notice and snaps at Cullen.  “He _is_ to be believed.  Do you think it an exaggeration, Commander?  I know this clan, and they are fighters. They, too, are relentless.  If Clan Lavellan is growing tired and being beaten down,” Felan frowns and quiets.  “Then I agree, something must be out of the ordinary with these raiders or bandits or whomever they are.  Do you have suggestions?”

“I have men stationed out that way, already.  They can be outside of Wycome in a few days time and bolster your people against any further attacks; work with the Dalish to enact a plan and keep us informed.  Josephine and Leliana will likely want to involve the Duke and be diplomatic and as quiet as possible about it all, but I say we show the clan they have the Inquisition’s - _and your -_ support.  Earn their trust and respect in this matter.  What say you?”

Felan sits down on the settee and sighs, rubbing his thumb over the knuckles of the marked hand anxiously.  “Send your men. _I’ll_ discuss this with Leliana and Josie later, myself.  And I’ll have a raven sent out before nightfall to alert the clan of it.  Are these men of yours tolerant, Cullen?”

“Pardon?”

“I think what he means to say,” Dorian suggests. “is are your soldiers going to pass superficial judgement on these Dalish, or will they _protect them_ as one of their own?”

Swallowing thickly, Cullen presses his fist over his heart and makes a stiff, short bow in Felan’s direction.  “They are, you have my word. Your people and your family will be protected.” Felan winces slightly at that, but turns his head to watch the floor as he nods once.  “Good. Thank you again, Cullen.”

Even though Felan can’t see it, Cullen stares on at him.  The man is as transparent as he is handsome. “Of course. I’ll send a bird out to Lieutenant Rozellene immediately to get them on the move.”  And then he is down the steps and out the door without another word. The room goes quiet except for the movement and crackle of flame behind Dorian.

He feels a sudden anger and possessiveness creep up through his veins.  Dorian approaches Felan and kneels down in front of him, taking his right hand in his, wordlessly beginning to wipe blood away from the cuts there with the dampened rag he dips in the warmed water.  He cools the jealousy seeping out of his pores enough to be gentle. Without looking at Felan he asks, “What was that all about, Fae? Something happen with your clan?”

“Bandits, apparently,” he shrugs.  His voice is cold and condescending.  “Or maybe they’re _shems_ working with slavers.  Trying to corral my people like sheep.” Felan’s eyes level with Dorian’s when he glances up.   _“Perhaps_ they are even from Tev-”  Dorian drops the rag in his lap and clutches the sides of Felan’s face a bit harshly, making him instantly shut up.  “Stop it, Fae! What’s going on with you? Damn it, what happened down there in the meeting?!”

Pulling his face free, Felan grabs the rag from Dorian and proceeds to finish cleaning the blood from his hand.  Dorian watches the muscles in his jaw twitch with a suppressed anger. This isn’t like them. This is what happens when you get _too close._ It is nearly reminiscent of their passive aggressive conversation they’d had on slavery of elves in the Imperium shortly after Dorian had decided to stay on with the Inquisition - seething tempers warring with the effort to see one another’s opinions - ending with Fae giving Dorian quite a bit to mull over that night.  But they’d been passed that now, at least they were supposed to be.

Something is going on in that pretty head, and Felan is shutting him out, aggressively, with lustful, distracting words and hateful barbs.  Dorian, however, did not want to exacerbate the situation and have Felan pull further away from him. _He is still his dearest friend._

Felan opens the jar of salve and dips a finger in, gingerly patting a small amount onto his palm.  Well, it certainly smells a little better than it looks, Dorian realises. When Felan begins wrapping his hand with the bandages, Dorian tries stilling his ministrations with a hand on his wrist.  “Let me…”

But Felan wrenches his hand free and stands, Dorian doing the same immediately after.   _“Fenedhis, Dorian!_ I’m not a fucking convalescent, I can do this myself just fine.  I got pissed off and broke my stupid teacup, alright?”

“Oh, I apologise, I didn’t realise a mere temper-tantrum warranted Cassandra coming to fetch me from the gardens with a worry in her eyes almost comparable to the damned night Corypheus and his darkspawn _pet_ paid us a visit.  Only to come rushing with her to see _you_ sitting in a broken, defeated heap with a bloody mouth and hand.  Yes, battle with a fucking teacup, _indeed,_ Felan.  Lie to me all you want, but I won’t stand for you throwing _my_ homeland’s mistakes in my face like all these other opinionated hatemongers because _your_ people are under attack.”

A rage simmers beneath Felan’s icy gaze and for a moment, Dorian thinks his friend might actually slap him.  When the blow does not come he offers, with voice still raised, “Do you want me to leave?”

Felan grimaces, tears pooling in his eyes - and his voice, strained as he whimpers, “No…” He sits back down as if the effort to stand is suddenly too much.   _“No.  Please, don't.”_ Any frustration Dorian had is quickly forgotten in place of consoling Felan.  He falls before him and kisses him soundly, relieved Felan lets him without protest.  “We don’t have to speak anymore,” Dorian whispers, and wipes the steady roll of tears from Felan’s face.

“No, no, I _should._ I’m so sorry, Dorian.  And it wasn’t fair of me to say those things.”  He sniffles and Dorian picks up the trail of extra bandage that’s lain across his lap, “And _I_ shouldn’t have said the things I had, either, amatus.  May I?” With the nod of his permission, Dorian continues wrapping the fabric about Felan’s hand.

“Two years ago, maybe a little longer now,”  Felan inhales deeply, then continues, “I was on a hunting day-trip by myself.  On my way back, I came upon a trading caravan. The humans were kind, and offered trade of their wares for the pelts of my kills.  I politely refused, but after I saw the the weaponry and goods they had, I told them of where my clan would be camped for the next few days and that our hahren would gladly trade with them.”  Dorian continues to listen, only taking his attention from Felan’s face to cut away excess from the bandage with a belt-knife, and tuck the rest in at his wrist.

“My father was our clan’s hahren, and Master, a rarity for most clans, but it worked well for ours, and he lead us well for years… even before my sister and I were born.  He dealt with most tradings with humans in nearby cities and along our wanderings. I’d been training to do the same, with my mother teaching me to read the ‘trade-tongue’ and more ventures on my own.  So naturally, I was excited to tell my father and our Keeper about the humans I’d met and the prospect of a beneficial trade.”

Something in Fae’s face changes, a tightening of his expression that becomes more obvious and more pained as he goes on.  But still, Dorian does not interject. He holds Felan’s bandaged hand in one of his own, and with the other, rubs idle patterns upon his knee and thigh in a calming gesture.  Dorian does not know much of anything concerning Felan’s past like the elf knows his, and as much as he is eager to learn, the struggle in his lover’s voice makes him uncomfortable.

“My father was proud and hopeful.  And Vie - my sister- teased me about how I finally had something to show for my frequent hunts alone, and that perhaps my distance from the clan as a whole made it easier for the shemlen to warm up to my personality.  She didn’t mean anything by it, of course…” Felan pauses, and Dorian waits for a wry grin, but it doesn’t come. He only grips tighter to Dorian’s hand. “Three… three days passed. And they came to us in the night. They were… bandits, masquerading as fucking tradesmen.  I’m sure now, the caravan they had, as well as all their wares were stolen or obtained by other unseemly means… They slaughtered our halla first, their bellowing mewls are what woke us. They tried taking some of us hostage, and even threatened to burn the aravels if we didn’t give them what they wanted.  We of course, _fought back._ But Dorian, there were so many.  Much more than I’d met previously on my hunt, the bastards…  And the ones I had met, they just _smiled_ at me as if we were old friends.”

Felan begins crying in earnest and the quake of his shoulders breaks Dorian’s heart wide open.  He didn’t know if he _himself_ could handle Felan going on with his horrid tale.  “Fae, shh… I think you should have a lie down. You’re only making yourself more upset-”

 _“Dorian.  No._ Just… _listen…_ Please, just let me finish.  I _need_ to say this.  Even if it ruins your opinion of me once I do.”  Sighing, Dorian sits back on his haunches and regretfully lets Felan continue.  “I fought with everything I had. I was so bloody _angry._ Angry at their trickery and angry at myself... for falling for it.  We were winning, but they… had a couple archers positioned in the woods nearby.  My father was our most skilled warrior, and I suppose they noticed. I think they waited until the barrier cast over him waned, and they aimed to weaken him, not kill.  Two arrows - one through his sword arm, the other his thigh, right through the leather. I froze… I’d never seen my father wounded in battle because _we’d never had one!  I froze,_ and I _watched him_ struggle to reach down for his fallen sword while he deflected more blows with his shield...  Next thing I knew, I was on the ground. Tackled by one of the bandits’ rogues. I think he meant to blind me, but he was poorly skilled - only lucky enough to catch me off guard.”  He fingers the scars along his right brow and the side of his nose. _Ah,_ Dorian thinks.  A bad memory each time he looks in the mirror, perhaps?  “I… wrestled him off me and slit his _shem throat_ in time to watch my closest friend take the life of the man who stole my father’s.  And again, I just stood there. _Again!_ The only thing that pulled me from my fucking stupor were the screams of the archers burning.  And then my own. How I _wished_ they’d just cut me down too…”

 _“Oh, amatus,”_  Dorian rises on his knees to hug Felan close to him.  Fingers claw and twist in the fabric of his robes, and Felan’s hot cheek nestles against his neck as he sobs.  He feels every stuttering cry beneath his hands that roam the bare skin of Felan’s back. _“I am so sorry, Felan._ I’m so, so sorry.”

“Dorian, I failed them, I failed my father and my family.  He’s _dead_ because I did _nothing._ Because I am _weak._ And I knew… I knew they resented me for it, so I did them all a favour and left.  Somewhere deep inside, I think I hoped I’d come across men like that again while I was out on my own.”

“Shh, Felan, don’t talk like that!”  Dorian shakes his head at the thought and cards his fingers through Felan’s hair desperately when he raises his head from Dorian’s shoulder.  He can only imagine that getting word of attacks on his clan likely reopened old wounds to fester. “You _aren’t_ weak.  I don’t know how many times I have to say it, but _I’ll have you know_ I’ve no problem saying it until it sinks into this gorgeous head of yours:  You are one of the strongest people I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. If not _the_ strongest.  And you’re intimidatingly brave.  I’m sorry you had to go through that… and I wish I could cut out the pain you hold onto, Fae, but you’re terribly mistaken if you think this changes… how I feel for you.”

Felan wipes sloppily at his face like a child who’s just been scolded.  “And if I fail all of _you_ again, like I did at Haven?”

“What?  Fae… Haven was-” Dorian sighs and moves his hands to the sides of Felan’s face.  “You didn’t fail anyone. No one thinks that. If I remember correctly, you let a mountain come down on your head just so _everyone else_ could get away that night.  And I don’t believe you’ll fail us.  You’ll lead us to a final victory, I know it.  Though, I don’t plan on letting you pull a stupid stunt like that again, anytime soon.  So if you’ve got it in mind, you might as well kick me out of this castle now.” He smiles at Felan, whose face has since gone more placid.  His lashes still cling together with the salt of drying tears, but no more fall.

Slowly, so very slowly, Felan slides an arm around Dorian's shoulder and places his bandaged hand against the side of his neck.  For a moment, Dorian feels himself get lost in the way the limbal rings of Felan’s irises bleed deep blue into grey.

A blink, and a pause, and then, “Dorian,  I love you.”

This, _this_ is what it must feel like when a man dies because his heart has given out.  Or a drowning last gasp for breath. Maybe even akin to falling off a cliffside, knowing it's far too late for your sorry soul to be saved before you hit the jagged bottom.

He searches Felan’s face for a few, rapid breaths, and then Dorian pulls him close by the nape of his neck, bringing their mouths together to close off all thought.   _Please, no more words._ Felan pushes himself off the settee to gracefully slink into his lap, then he’s tugging him to the floor.  Before he knows what he’s doing, Dorian is helping Fae make quick work of the straps and ties holding his robes and leathers together, and even quicker work of Felan’s boots and breeches.

Once Felan is bare, lying next to him, Dorian wants to knock himself in the head for not actually taking a minute to _think._ He stops Felan from surging up to kiss him again.  “Felan, Fae - wait. You’ve… you’re upset and-”

“Not thinking clearly?” Felan grates out.  “I don’t know the last time I felt this clear-headed.  So don’t try to be noble with me right now, because I know full well what I want.  And _I know I want you.”_

Dorian lets himself be pulled back down into Felan’s embrace and fumbles between ridding himself of clothing and grasping for more of Felan’s warm skin.  While undoing the belts at his waist, the back of his hand grazes Fae’s hip, and Dorian is lost to that touch once more. Roughly gripping the sharp jut of hip bone there; fingers searching - encircling to stroke Felan to full-hardness.  When Felan moans into his mouth, Dorian lifts off of him. He kneels beside him, petting down and along his stomach as Felan pitches his hips into the touch. “How do you want it, Fae?”

“Vhenan… I want you to fuck me.   _Right here.”_

One could argue at the impracticality of fucking on the floor next to a perfectly good, _comfortable_ bed, but Dorian doesn’t much feel like arguing anymore.  Besides, there is something terribly… _primal_ about the thought of taking his lover upon the rug like this.  His knees will likely hate him for it later, but that is no present matter.  

He stands and magically throws the lock to Felan’s room, then quickly tugs his boots off and finishes undressing.  Dorian would be the first to admit that he isn’t the best at the magical levitation of objects, but he feels a small victory at getting the vial of oil halfway across the bed before it falls.  He clamours for it and lowers himself back over Felan, immediately uncapping the vial to slick his fingers.

Felan gives a little shake of his head.  “No, just do it. I don’t want to wait.” That causes a slight jolt in Dorian.  “Felan, I don’t want to hurt you.” Their mouths meet again when Felan tangles his fingers in Dorian’s hair, and his legs around his waist - pulling him closer.  “You won’t, Dor. _I trust you._ I’ll tell you if you do, I promise.”

Relenting, Dorian begins pouring the oil into his hand - and shaky with nerves, a decent amount drips onto Felan’s thighs.  Dorian can feel himself blush like a foolhardy teen. He’s practically doused them in the rest of the contents before he’s slicking himself generously.  Impatience grows between them though, when Dorian runs his oiled hand up and down Felan’s shaft a few times. He watches Felan’s fingers dig into the red fibres beneath them as he writhes, closing his eyes.  Despite Felan’s desire to rush, Dorian enters him with his middle finger, giving a few careful thrusts, and earning him more of Felan’s choked off moaning.

“You know I love to hear you, amatus.   _Louder.”_

“Perhaps you... should give me cause... to _be_ louder.” Felan snaps back in between pants.  That makes Dorian smile down at him devilishly.

He crawls over Felan, letting his cock slide against his and gives a final few thrusts of his finger, and Felan’s body tenses and shudders with it.   _“Shit,_ Dorian,” Felan hisses between his teeth and claws at Dorian’s thighs and ass.  “I said I didn’t want to wait.”

Laughing quietly, Dorian leans his forehead against Fae’s and lines himself up, pressing in with an almost-hesitant gentleness.  Felan curls upward with each shallow thrust in and out of him until Dorian is finally buried deep inside. _“This_ is what you wanted, Fae, isn’t it?”  he asks with a forceful, forward jerk of his hips that has Felan arching beneath him with a deep, pleasured moan.  

There are no pillows, no blankets, no headboard to grapple onto here on the floor, so Felan pleads for more while wrapping his arms and legs tight around Dorian’s shoulders and waist.  It’s rough and fast - the momentum of Dorian’s body rocking into Felan causing his lover to bounce upward on the rug with each firm snap of his hips. Somehow, it feels vaguely familiar to Dorian - the straight-and-to-the-point rush of it all, the over-enthusiasm, the quick chase for release.   _Yes, I know this.  I know how this goes,_ he tells himself.  But Felan isn’t going to boot him out of his room immediately after they’ve collected themselves and their clothing, is he?   _Because that’s not what lovers do._

And Felan is in love with him.

Dorian is made keenly aware of this again when Felan lets out a breathy, “You don’t have to say it, _I know.”_  Does he?   _Does_ Felan know the words lodged deep inside the cage of his heart that he is too frightened to dare speak? “You don’t have to say it, Dorian...  uhhnn…!” Felan gasps. “I-I know… I know you’re mine.” He kisses the side of Dorian's neck and face feverishly and tries to meet the movement of Dorian's hips with a stuttering momentum of his own.

 _“I am.”_ Dorian promises, voice rumbling with a hoarseness brought on by his impending orgasm.  He brings Felan’s mouth to his with a hand at his jaw; the movements of their tongues, obscene.  Felan hums against lips, his volume increasing by the second, causing Dorian to crack a bit of a smile.  

Slipping his thumb along the edge of their mouths, Dorian feels Felan’s tongue work at the digit, only to turn his head and give light bites down to the knuckle.  “Ohh, by the Maker,” Dorian groans, watching the lewd way Felan’s teeth and lips graze over his thumb. He lifts up enough to grasp Felan’s cock between them, and Felan gives a harsher bite down before crying out his name.   His fingers suddenly tighten against Dorian’s hip and thigh, urging him on, so Dorian rolls his hips harder, _deeper.  “Kaffas,_ I’m not going to last like this, Fae,” Dorian exhales.  But then Felan is canting his own hips downward with a forceful grind as his head tilts back and his eyelids clamp shut.  

Dorian speeds up his hand around Felan’s cock - slick with the mixture of oil and precome - and Felan whimpers and gasps, holding in each new, tiny breath before crying out with a pained sound of ecstacy mingling with Elvhen and curses in common-tongue.  Dorian is coming undone at the feeling of Felan’s body clamping down on his cock - _closer and closer._  An arc of Felan’s come catches his chin, blotting out the vallaslin there; and when he opens his eyes to look up at Dorian, with those dark brows still drawn over his pleasure-heavy eyes, it’s exactly the image Dorian needs to tear at the seams.  

He falls upon Felan with a deep, broken groan, letting the tremble of Felan’s body against him pull him down under the waves.  “Fucking… _Maker, amatus...!”_ Dorian huffs with a little laugh against Felan’s neck, the last spasms of his orgasm still rolling over him.  “Mmm,” Felan wordlessly answers, and squeezes Dorian’s thigh.

All of Dorian’s nerves are alight in that moment.  He feels everything - the burn of the thinly gouged welts surely springing up across his shoulder blades, as the rough slide of Felan’s bandaged hand smooths over his skin; the lingering contractions of Felan’s body around his softening cock; the sweat-damp suction in the hollows of their chests pressed tight while they pant into each other’s flesh; the pulse of unknown magic in the Anchor against his thigh that beats in tune with the pulse of Felan’s throat and spent cock trapped beneath his stomach.   _Everything is Felan.  Why can’t he say it?_

Fingers pet through his (likely) disaster of hair, and he peers up at Felan, whose wolfish grin is made all the more tantalising with the milky white gleam of come below his bottom lip.  Dorian can’t help himself, and leans over him to lick a stripe up to Felan’s mouth and smothers him with a filthy kiss. His stomach glides wetly over Felan’s, and he swears his body could stir again between them at the sensation.  He ignores the mess and grabs for Felan’s hair as he brings his arm beneath his shoulders to pull him up - nearer and closer.

When Fae makes an eager sound in his throat, Dorian forces himself to pull away from his mouth.  “I think you’ve properly spoiled me.” Felan says, wickedly.

“Have I?”

“Mm.  I don’t think I could live without this,” Felan rolls his hips up against Dorian’s, the _demon._ “ever again.”  

 _“You??”_  Dorian laughs.  “Come on. I think I’ve a mind to _spoil you_ even more and run you a bath.”

Felan looks down between them.  “It’s the least you could do.”

 _“Absolutely.”_ Dorian agrees.

“But first, we need to look presentable to get the… servants,”  Dorian didn’t miss the hesitation in saying that word. “to bring water pails up here.”

Dorian kisses him.  “I see you’ve not yet realised the perks to being with a mage yet.  Give me a moment, yes?” He rises off the floor and cleans himself off at the wash basin before helping Felan do the same.

Felan watches him curiously as he goes to the large copper tub in the washroom, lighting the single sconce in there with a lazy flick of the wrist.  Dorian concentrates, closing his eyes, picking up on the moisture in the air, then smiles over his shoulder at Fae, who watches on in astonishment as waist-high stalagmites of ice rise from the tub.  They melt immediately after, Dorian now using controlled flame in both hands.

“Perks, indeed.” Felan bumps his shoulder.  “Hang on a second.” He grabs Dorian’s robe up off the floor, wrapping it around his shoulders and tosses the rest of their clothing onto his bed.  He then goes to the bedside table, and snatches up a clear, thin-necked bottle - the contents of which, resemble something like olive oil. When he comes to stand next to Dorian again, he admires the muss of Felan’s silvery hair over his right eye, and the way the deep wine colour of his robe brings out the flush in his light caramel skin.

Felan wriggles the cork out of the bottle and pours a tiny amount of the liquid in the water, and Dorian does indeed smell olive oil, but the stronger scent of vetiver and crystal grace make him sigh.   _It’s terribly tempting._ The heavy fall of fabric catches Dorian's attention as his robe drops to the floor from Felan’s shoulders.  Fae’s slender arms come around his neck, then he’s kissing him again, and _venhedis, this too, is tempting._ Felan’s hands smooth down Dorian’s chest, and his thumbs begin running slow circles against his nipples, alternating between flicking the rings there.  Dorian _absolutely_ feels his cock twitch in interest.  He gently grabs Felan’s hands, and he looks up at Dorian through his lashes, letting out a guilty little giggle as his teeth tug his bottom lip into his mouth.

“You clever little _fox,_ you.” Dorian exhales.

Felan smiles, bringing Dorian’s left hand up to kiss his fingers.  “I was only teasing,” he says innocently.

“Yes, I’m quite _aware.”_ He helps Felan into the tub, then grabs a towel for him and a ball of castile soap.  He tosses the soap into the tub without warning, causing a decent splash to hit Felan’s face.

“Dorian!   _You ass.”_ Dorian laughs and ruffles Felan’s hair, then folds the towel behind him against the edge of the tub.  Felan leans back, mindful of the bandage by keeping his right hand slung over the side. But, he catches Dorian’s wrist as he walks by to leave the room.  “You won’t join me?” His eyes are pleading. _Damn him._

“I ah, I was going to grab a change of clothes and go down to the public baths.  It’s alright. I want you to enjoy yourself. You certainly deserve it after the day you’ve had so far, don’t you think?”

 _“Dor.”_ Felan scowls and tugs on his wrist some more.

Dorian had never bathed with a lover - then again, he'd never had a _committed_ lover to do such things with.  Forbidden glances at his occasional trips to public bathhouses in Minrathous were about as far as he'd ever gotten. The prospect with Felan is terribly intimate, but not sexual, and he relents when Felan scoots forward to make room for him - which he's pleasantly surprised to note there's more than enough of for the both of them.

Felan relaxes back against his chest, coasting the fingers of his good hand down Dorian's thigh as he stretches his legs out on either side of him.  At first, Dorian feels a touch awkward and doesn't know what to do with his hands, then he slides one arm across Felan’s chest, the other coming around to tilt Felan's face towards him for a lingering, but chaste kiss.  

He loves Felan, truly.  Perhaps he never stood a chance to deny it.  It’s enough to make him nearly weep that he can’t say those words back to him, aloud.   _Words make it real, and tangible things can be broken._ And well, Felan made it real, hadn’t he?  With words spoken like a spectacular, welcome hex upon Dorian’s entire being.

Aside from the quiet sounds of water rippling and settling around them, Dorian finds the silence in the air a bit stifling.  He wraps his other arm around Felan’s front and sighs as he rests his chin on his shoulder. “I’m happy, and it’s positively frightening, Fae,” he admits.

“I know,” Felan hangs onto Dorian’s arms and rests his cheek against the side of his head. “And so am I.” He lets out a shaky breath from his nose before speaking again, so very softly.  “What I said earlier, Dorian… I said for the both of us.”

Dorian feels the telltale tingle in his eyes and nose that usually brings unwanted tears, but he bites the inside of his mouth to keep them at bay and hugs Felan tighter to him.

“Will you stay with me again tonight?” Felan asks him.

“Of course,” Dorian whispers.  “Of course, I will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhh, sad babiieeesss!! T_T
> 
>  
> 
> *Excerpts from Charles Baudelaire's poem, Hymne À La Beauté (Hymn to Beauty), were used in the summary because I felt it fit well for both Felan and Dorian and their budding relationship. I studied a few translations and used a bit of my own, so I apologise if anyone familiar with the poem in its original language isn't too keen on my interpretation! (my French is also a bit rusty from disuse)
> 
> And a little "trivia" no one will probably care about but me haha: Baudelaire uses the French word "fée" in the poem, which "fae" stems from - both of which mean "faerie/fairy." And since Dorian's nickname for Felan is "Fae," I, of course, had to use that spelling lol (most older English translations I've seen use "fey" instead of literally "fairy," anyway).
> 
> Comments & kudos appreciated as always, m'dearrss!  
> <3


	7. Clever Like Foxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Mighty of arm and warmest of heart,  
>  Rendered to dust. Bitter is sorrow,  
> Ate raw and often, poison that weakens and does not kill."_  
>    
> -Canticle of Andraste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felan's dear bog unicorn, Dearg, is mentioned in this chapter :) And just for reading ease, his name is pronounced something like JAIR-ahg. It's Irish Gaelic for red!
> 
> Also, for those of you reading this that have read Felan's OC profile on my tumblr, I've tweaked a couple things about his backstory for story purposes that are different from that. Nothing too major, though.
> 
> Enjoy!<3

The trend of not being able to appease everyone with his decisions, continued after Felan had met with Leliana and Josephine again.  He'd made them aware of his choice to follow through with Cullen’s plan to send his men to help bolster Clan Lavellan against the raiders.  Both women were a bit anxious over what they saw as Felan’s rash decision making rearing its head over such a delicate and important matter. But this was _personal,_ and it meant more to him than they could understand.

Later, while helping Felan pen a short, informative letter to his clan, Leliana seemed to warm up to the idea of “brute force” slightly, mostly after Felan clued her in on just how things work in his clan… or at least, how they had when he’d been living with them.  He just assumes Aridhel has been leading them well along with Keeper Deshanna. He’s certainly been keeping them alive, and that is enough for Felan. Perhaps Felan can protect his people from afar in a way he never could while he roamed the Free Marches alongside them.  

The thought sets a small flicker of warmth in his chest as he reaches the last of the steps to his room.  That warmth blooms forth along his limbs and settles heavy in his belly at the sight of Dorian in his bed, lying on his stomach, half-tangled in currents of deep red satin sheets across his lower half.

Felan slides his boots off, setting them next to the loveseat, then tiptoes quietly to lean against one of the posts at the foot of the bed.  For a moment, he watches the slow, steady rise and fall of Dorian’s back as he breathes - it calms Felan’s always edgy nerves and soon, he can’t help but climb back into bed, too.  Slinking over Dorian, Felan smooths a hand down his arm tucked beneath a pillow, and revels in the body heat emanating from his friend. Dorian barely stirs, so Felan presses his lips to the back of his neck, then rests his forehead there.

“Mm… ?  Fae...” Dorian makes a couple more incoherent, groggy, questioning sounds masked as words, causing Felan to giggle.  Before he can move from Dorian’s back, he’s pulled down into his arms beside him as Dorian turns over.  “...You’re very warm.”

“Oh?”  Felan smirks down at Dorian and his glorious bedhead.  

A single nod, then Dorian kisses the side of Felan’s face, wrapping his arms tighter around him.  “Yes, but I must ask why you’re still wearing clothes?”

Felan hides a small laugh in the crook of Dorian’s neck.  “Plan on staying in bed _all_ day, vhenan?”

“With you?   _Absolutely.”_ He brushes Felan’s fringe back off his brow when he lifts his head to look at Dorian once more.  “How did the rest of the meeting go?” Dorian’s voice takes on a calmer, quieter tone that’s strictly reserved for when he’s actually being _serious_ with Felan.  

With something of an attempt at a shrug, Felan averts his gaze from Dorian’s face down to his chest, where his fingers have been absentmindedly trailing back and forth.  He has to bite his bottom lip to hold back a smile when he notes the beginnings of stubble weaving in between Dorian’s pecs, and then brings that same hand up to feel the rough prick of dark hair hiding along his jawline - all these little _human_ quirks Felan never expected he’d fall in love with.  Sure, he’d experienced a lot of it with Cullen, but that was different.  The differences between he and Felan were never hidden beneath any carefully put together mask, save for one of propriety.

Suddenly, Dorian grabs Felan’s hand, kissing his wandering fingers.  “I’m in need of a shave, _I know._ You needn’t call attention to it.   _Really...”_

“I don’t think I mind it, actually.”  Felan again admires the dark strands that graze Dorian’s forehead haphazardly; all these wonderful imperfections in a man who seems to try so very hard to exceed the very ideals of perfection.

“Now,” Dorian shifts and sits up, bringing Felan along with him to straddle his thighs. “you’ve gone and ruined the mood…”

“The mood, hm?” A sly smile creeps across Felan’s face as he attempts to peel the sheet away covering Dorian’s half-hard cock, but his hand is brushed aside and Dorian clicks his tongue at him.  “Talk to me, Fae. _The meeting._ Is everything - _are you_ going to be alright?”  Their fingers twine tightly together.

Sighing, Felan hugs Dorian, feeling the sudden safety of a strong arm around his middle that makes it easier to speak.  “I think so… I just… I was on my own, and everything was fine. _I_ was fine without them for quite some time, and it seemed the same for them without me.  Perhaps I owe them, I don’t know. But I can never seem to get _away_ from them.  And Creators, that’s all I want to do, as awful as I’m sure that sounds.”

Dorian squeezes his hand and brushes his thumb over Felan’s.  “No, not awful. You’ve been through a great deal even before all of this.  You broke free and survived on your own without anyone else to depend on, and that’s commendable, amatus.  Now your clan wants to know of your affiliation with the Inquisition, as well as your helping hand. It’s understandable for you to feel a bit cagey because of it all.  But I support the call you’ve made, though I’m not sure what kind of consolation that could bring you.”

Felan thinks about the letter from Aridhel again, how… distant it had been, at first.  And then he thinks of all the desperate pleas at the end that dug down like clawing fingers into the long-cold ashes of old love.  He wants to tell Dorian, wishes he could. Wishes he had the strength and courage to admit to him that having a letter addressed to him from the lover he was supposed to spend a lifetime with, had also shaken him just as bad as the threat to the clan; confess it was his sister and Aridhel who had told him about the impending Conclave when he’d visited weeks beforehand; and that it was Aridhel who had all but cornered him into going as his little shadowy spy.  Felan ventures that his clan likely does not know he’d ended up in this whole Void-forsaken mess because Aridhel had coerced him in the ways that always got beneath Felan’s skin, where Ari long had hooks in, knowing that come what may, Felan would walk to the ends of the world for him. And they’d bloody sealed the deal together when Aridhel had given him one of those lean and hungry looks Felan couldn’t bare to refuse in all their years together - culminating with a gasping fuck while they went on a short hunt together as a strange reunion of sorts, reminiscent of their first time.

But _no more._ Things are different now, they _had to be_ because he can’t bear to step foot in the shadows of his past again.  He breathes in the scent of his own soaps against his dear vhenan’s skin while Dorian runs his fingers along Felan’s spine.  Yes, _so very different._ He feels ownership of this man, but not possession. Felan knows he’s got to trudge forward.  And he wants Dorian to move on with him.

He breaks their silence and pulls away to search those honeyed-grey eyes.  “It does help, thank you, Dorian. And what about you? Are you still planning to write to your parents?”

Dorian scoffs and rolls his eyes.  “No. _Maybe._ They certainly don’t deserve it, do they?  I’ve had time to think, though not enough time to _drink,”_ Dorian smiles up at Felan then, and there’s a tinge of sarcasm in the act, somehow. “But I don’t really care to give into any of their warm, parental affectations just now.  My father could grovel all he likes, but they’ve certainly proven I cannot trust them any longer. This was just another in a long line of tricks and manipulations to get me to see _their side_ of things.  But I’ll have none of it anymore.  Perhaps one day I’ll learn to forgive them, but _never forget,_ no. And I don’t really see myself being in the mood for forgiveness any time soon.”

“I’m sorry, Dorian…” Felan whispers and trails a hand to the back of Dorian’s head, massaging his scalp there and smiling when Dorian’s eyes threaten to flutter closed with the touch.  Dorian turns his head enough to kiss the inside of Felan’s forearm, next to the curving white line of a deep scar. “Don’t be. I only regret you and I weren’t… _together_ before we went to Redcliffe.”

“And why is that?”  Felan asks with a hint of amusement.

“I could’ve dipped you into a passionate kiss at the first sign of argument from my father.  That would have _really_ ruffled his feathers.”  Felan laughs and in seconds is shown first-hand what Dorian would have done as he embraces him, kisses him soundly, then proceeds to dip Felan to the side before rolling on top of him.  

“Like that, eh?” Felan asks after catching his breath.  His hands trail down Dorian’s back to grip his bare ass where the sheet has completely fallen away.  “Definitely not parent-approved behaviour.”

“Well, perhaps not _quite_ like that, despite how much I _do_ love a good scandal.”  He kisses Felan deeply, rolling his hips against him in a manner almost mimicking the roll of his tongue against Felan’s own, earning him a soft moan in response.  “Now, do you have anymore pressing _Inquisitor business_ to attend to?  Because I’d _very much_ like to make you come again, amatus,” he murmurs against Felan’s lips.

Any words Felan can possibly say in response to that die upon his tongue immediately, and his brain is suddenly fogged with desire.  “I-I… no, I don’t believe I do. And,” he swallows, trying to wet a mouth gone dry. “I already locked the door.”

Dorian has already begun divesting Felan of his clothing with eager hands.  “Good. I like a man who thinks a _head.”_ Felan chuckles and tugs on Dorian’s hair in reprimand for the awful pun, then wriggles out of his half-stripped off clothing, pulling Dorian back down on top of him.

 

They spend the remainder of the day mostly in bed, and Felan isn’t able to find it in himself to have any qualms over it.  Thoroughly sated and exhausted - and perhaps a bit sore - they lounge about while Dorian helps Felan with his basic writing skills again.  He also helps Felan realise that his self-consciousness over it is hindering his practice, and makes him understand that he really is getting better at sounding out most words he attempts to read.  Encouragement and pride lace Dorian’s commendations as they carry on, and Felan feels a happiness for it that nearly rivals the cheers he’d received after closing the Breach, or the smile on his father’s face when he took down his first kill with a bow.

Occasionally he looks towards Dorian’s profile while the man gazes down at the book and parchment sat across their laps, and wonders if his friend feels the way Felan believes he does.   _“Amatus”_ he’d said - _beloved._ The urge to tell Dorian he loves him again presses hard against the back of his tongue.  But Felan doesn’t want anything to crumble due to _too much, too soon._ He’ll settle with waiting for Dorian to be sure of his own feelings and emotions.  He knows it’ll be worth it, and he’s honestly glad Dorian knows just how much he means to him now.  Holding back a grin at his own expense, Felan realises that perhaps he is a bit thankful, _of all things,_ for being forced into this whole debacle.  Maybe he should thank Aridhel. _No, that might be too far._

Dorian tilts his head up from their work and smiles over at Felan, then leans in to kiss him on the brow.  

 _“There’s no one I’d rather be stranded in time with, future or present.”_ Felan lets himself smile at the memory as his eyes drift closed to the sensation of Dorian’s lips lingering against his skin.

He feels Dorian smile as well before he kisses him once more and asks, “We could wrap this up, if you’d like?  I think I’ve worked up quite the appetite, and I do believe they’ll be setting up for dinner in the hall soon, yes?”

Felan nods and stretches beside him.  “Mm, I think that does sound like a plan.  I could just grab us both a tray myself, and we could take our dinner up here?”

“Yes, I think we’ve both done with enough _excitement_ for the day, don’t you?  I’ll come with you though, and while you do that, I’ll nip over to my room to collect a few things, if you don’t mind.  That is… if you’d still like me to stay…” The emotion on Dorian’s face shifts to something much less confident just then.

 _“Of course I do.”_  They both rise from Felan’s bed finally and gather their clothes up to dress.  “I want you to stay whenever you’d like, Dori.”

Dorian barks out a laugh as he pulls on his leather pants.   _“Dori?!”_ Blushing furiously, Felan scowls at him.  “Oh, Felan… I’m not sure that could grow on me.  It’s a touch too… too _cutesy?_  I much prefer your use of ‘Dor.’”

“It is fitting, isn’t it?” Felan cocks an eyebrow at Dorian and crosses his arms, fighting to keep a straight face.  “A _door_ is something that can keep people out, not letting anyone in, key or no at times, even.  Yes, I think that certainly sounds like someone I know...”

“Brat!” Dorian lunges at the bed to snatch a pillow and toss it at Felan.  They fall into a fit of laughter as they each finish dressing, and Felan apologises with both words and a few well-placed kisses.

Before they leave Felan’s room, Dorian tells him, “I do think I like this new thing you’ve called me - _vhenan,_ was it?  Care to tell me what it means?  After all, I did tell you the meaning of _amatus,_ yes?”

Felan reaches for his hand, gripping it tight.  “It’s similar to amatus, in a way, I suppose. In common, it means something like, ‘my heart’ or ‘my home.’  And well, that’s _you,_ Dorian - ‘ma vhenan.  I’m just sorry it took me so long to realise it.”

Shifting a bit uncomfortably while staring at the ground, Dorian smooths his hair back with his free hand, then huffs out a small laugh.  He pivots and cups Felan’s face, bringing their mouths together. The kiss is deep, but sweet, and when Dorian pulls away to look at Felan for a moment, Felan swears his lover’s eyes appear a bit glassy.  “Yes, I do think I like that one best. Come on, shall we?”

 

While Felan looks over the food set out along the tables with Dorian, Varric approaches them, a smile plastered firmly in place that only increases as he watches Dorian leave for his room. _“Varric.”_

 _“Inquisitor._ You keeping Sparkler hostage, huh?”

Felan grins without looking directly at his friend, and continues to fill their large plate with an assortment of smoked meats, cheeses, and fruit.  “Something like that. You going to write us into your next book?”

Varric spreads his hands innocently. “Hey now, I’m just happy _you’re_ happy.  At least, I think that’s what that smile means.  And I don’t care what or who it is that’s making you feel that way,” then he lowers his voice, and _that_ catches Felan’s attention more acutely.  “I just hope this is the real deal, Snow.  You uh, you were pretty broken up over our blushing commander for awhile there.  As a friend, all I’m saying is, I wouldn’t want to see you get hurt again, I guess.”

“Thank you.  But… I believe it is - ‘the real deal,’ as you say.”

“Alright, good, good… and I see we’re not keeping this hush-hush like before?  I understand why you did last time, but just remember, you’re the people’s Herald, and the leader of the Inquisition now, too.  People aren’t gonna stop talking - _especially_ not with a Tevinter altus at your side.”

Felan lets out a frustrated exhale through his nose and looks down at Varric.  “I _know._ And I know you’re looking out for me, and while I appreciate it, I just need you to trust me, Varric.  This is different than… _than before._  And I don’t give a  _shit_ what anyone has to say about it, behind my back or not.”

Taking a seat, Varric begins to pick at food nearest him.  “You ever think that maybe Dorian _does?”_ Felan wants to laugh at this situation, and he would if he wasn’t feeling so anxious.  Here he is, a Dalish elf, getting relationship advice from a dwarf, on being with a Tevinter human mage.  And Varric isn’t necessarily wrong, either. _Brilliant._

“Fine, I will ask him - talk to him about it, soon.  Fenedhis, I almost wish you _were_ just trying to weasel details out of me for a damned book.” They both chuckle at that.  

“Well, I mean, if you’re willing to divulge details…”

Felan glares down at him.   _“No.”_

“Alright, alright!  But hey, speakinngg of my books… I actually wanted to ask if you had a moment to spare after dinner?”  This earns Varric a look of skepticism. “Let’s just say, I’ve got some… _intel_ on something that might be of great interest to you.”

Content with the amount of food on his and Dorian’s plate, Felan sets it on the table, and shifts his weight to one side,  giving his undivided attention to Varric. “Okay, I’m listening, though I’m not really sure what that could possibly have to do with your writing. _So, out with it.”_

“Well, that’s just it, Snow!”  Felan winces slightly at the nickname, but not enough for his friend to take note.  “My lips are sealed until later. All will be revealed soon enough. Not really a conversation we can have around prying eyes and ears.”

 _“Where_ then?”

“The battlements maybe, but you meet me here in the hall after,” Varric eyes his overflowing plate-for-two. “you and Sparkler eat, then we’ll head out.  Whaddya say?”

Felan sighs, his patience wearing thin.  “Something tells me I don’t _really_ have a say, do I?  Alright, I’ll meet you here in about an hour, then.”

“Mmm… make it an hour and a half, after the sun has started to set.”  Laughing, Felan picks up his platter of food just as he sees Dorian sauntering back into the hall with a small satchel over his arm.  “During sunset? Varric, you romantic, you!”

“Oh, you want _romance?_  Have Dorian here read you one of my novels.” Varric winks at them and Dorian leans an elbow on Felan’s shoulder, taking the food from him and eyeing it appreciatively.

“What am I reading to you?” Dorian asks.

“Nothing, Dor.  Let’s just go eat.”

 

They each pore over the variety of food at Felan’s desk.  He’s sitting in his chair, trying to neaten up stacks of papers to keep his hands busy in between small bites of food, and Dorian is pondering aloud on what Varric could possibly have “intel” on that Felan would find so important.  Dorian scoots further onto the corner of the desk and plants his foot on the chair between Felan’s legs, then reaches over to still his hands, scolding Felan to “stop working and bloody eat something.” Felan feels his energy leaving his body in waves with each passing minute and lays his head on an arm perched across Dorian’s thigh.  He picks at the fruit a bit more, but wants desperately to just close his eyes.

“So, I was just thinking, if it’s under the cover of darkness, and he wants to speak up on the ramparts, then it _has_ to be something not even your advisors know of, hm?  How _enticing.”_  Dorian begins raking his fingers through Felan’s hair, scratching occasionally at the side of his head wear his hair is shaved close.  It isn’t helping his sleepiness, that’s for certain. He hums quietly and feels like a purring cat.

“I, personally, don’t want to think on it anymore, vhenan.  I’ll find out soon enough, and then the great mystery will be solved.  I love you, but you’re going to give me a headache prattling on with your theories.”  Dorian’s fingers still their movements for a moment, and Felan wonders which he should apologise more for: those _three words_ or snapping at Dorian when he hadn’t meant to.  His spike of worry is dissuaded when Dorian continues his gentle ministrations once more.

“I'm sorry, Fae.  Eat a bit more, though, hm?  That’ll help prevent a headache from _me_ or anything else, you know.  Perhaps you should see if this all can't wait until tomorrow evening…”

Felan lifts his head and is met with a look of adoration and concern in Dorian's eyes.  He gently squeezes his lover's knee in reassurance. “No, I'll be fine. I just want to get it over with, then climb into bed with you.  Besides, if _Varric_ says it's important, it must be.”

At Dorian’s behest, Felan forces himself to eat more than his knotted stomach initially allowed for.  Afterwards, he enjoys watching Dorian from the archway of his washroom while the man sets out pieces of a very expensive-looking shaving kit, all the while cursing and muttering on about speaking to Josie about procuring Felan some “mirrors that actually reflect.”

Leaning up to kiss Dorian on the temple, Felan tells him he’ll be back soon as he’s able, and to make himself at home in the meantime - to which Dorian makes a gibe about how very _domestic_ this all is, with an air of wariness that clenches Felan’s heart.

Waiting beside the large hearth in the great hall, is Varric, with a look on his face that is both quite conspiratorial and shifty.  They head outside into the fading, burnt glow of daylight, and Felan looks on as Inquisition merchants pack in for the night; practice weapons and dummies are gathered from the training circle while a sparring match nears its end, and fewer people mill about - most seemingly taking after-supper leisurely strolls around the grounds.  On their way up the ramparts, Varric and Felan pass a few guardsmen completing rotations and torch-lighting, and Felan begins to wonder just how secretive this all needs to truly be, after all.

He turns to Varric once they reach a part of the ramparts tucked down and off the side of a dilapidated tower room via a short set of steps.  “So, do I finally get answers? Or will there be riddles to solve as well?” Felan asks with a grin and leans against the parapet. The stone is still warm from the sun in the quickly chilling evening, and Felan hopes this doesn’t take long, since he hadn’t felt compelled to wear a cloak before leaving his chamber.  

“Of course!  At least, I sure hope we can figure out some answers about what kind of massive shitstorm this is that we’ve all been sucked into…  Hang on.” Varric heads up the steps to the tower door and Felan quirks an eyebrow in his direction as the dwarf raps a patterned knock against the splintering wood.  When he passes Felan, without a word, to pop the muselet off a corked bottle of ale with a pocket knife, Felan notices there are _three_ other bottles on the little bench against the wall.  Those appear to be wine, though. That’s when the confusion instantaneously settles in.  “I’m sorry, but… Is whatever you’re going to be discussing with me going to cause me to need a drink, or are we expecting…” Just then the tower door opens, and Felan swings around at the sound.  “company…”

A tall, somewhat lanky human walks out the door just then, and Felan feels his throat go dry at the sight of him.  His ashen blond hair is brushed off his pale, lightly lined forehead where waves give forth to tighter curls at the nape of his neck, and piercing, teal eyes are made all the more prominent by a thick white scar running from right brow to the left side of a nose that begs the influence of noble blood.  

He’s fine-boned, but rugged in a way that Felan is surprised to find _beautiful,_ and he seems to be quite a few years older than perhaps Dorian, but he also has a look to him akin to Cullen - an aging from experiences themselves, not the years spent enduring them.  

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” Felan snaps his attention from the easy smile this stubble-jawed human gives him, back to Varric.  “I introduce to you, Hawke, or _the Champion of Kirkwall.”_ As his gut does a somersault, Felan feels his eyes widen, and Varric just looks positively smug.   _The fabled Champion._ He didn’t know all the minute details, but Felan certainly knew enough about some of the deeds this man and his companions had done.  He’s suddenly greeted with a memory of his mother going on about how she’d heard this so-called ‘champion," who'd been doing good around Kirkwall, was also a friend of some royal this person or other from the city in which she was born.  She’d sounded thrilled, but Felan and Vie hated when she brought up anything concerning her time in the alienage of Starkhaven.

Felan blinks back over to the man - _Hawke,_ in front of him as he hisses between his teeth and grimaces in Varric’s direction.  “Come now, old friend, why all the formality with titles?” He then eyes Felan who is still shocked into silence.  “He still giving everyone nicknames?”

Laughing, out of delirium perhaps, Felan answers, “Yes, in fact I’m surprised he hasn’t given everyone in the whole bleeding castle one yet.”  he mocks a frown. “He calls my horse ‘Demon,’ you know.”

“Demon??  I’m sure a horse can’t possibly be all _that bad.”_  Hawke sounds a bit aghast, but not particularly serious, and Varric rounds on them both.  

“That’s because that _isn’t_ a damn horse!  I don’t know how that thing is galloping around with a Maker-damned _sword_ through its head, but it gives me the creeps…”  Varric feigns a dramatic chill.

“Don’t let Dearg hear that…” warns Felan with a smile.

“Trust me, I _won’t…”_

Hesitantly, Hawke interjects, “And… you know, I don’t think I’ll ask…”

Just then, a thin, dark, cloaked figure exits the tower and approaches on Hawke’s left side.  Felan notices immediately, in the silhouette from the torchlight, the pointed ears raising the fabric of the black hood at either side - giving this man away as an elf.  He feels a bit sad at the thought of one of his kind concealing their identity, even if he gets it. Felan never quite cared to hide himself from shemlen, and always took a knife to his cloaks to make slits for his ears to poke through.

His heart does a weird, painful thing inside his chest at the sight of this elf as he steps further into the orange glow of flame.  Shadows play and shift his features into a resemblance Felan prays to the Creators he doesn’t actually see. _Deep green eyes, long nose, white hair, caramel skin._  But soon, the illusion is gone as the elf removes his hood from atop shoulder-length hair, shaved on the right side.  The resemblance to Ari was merely fleeting, and likely a work of Felan’s over-stressed mind. Felan’s eyes catch such a split-second bluish glint off the elf’s strange vallaslin, that he almost believes he imagines that, too.  He watches as gloved fingers meet and tangle beneath cloaks when the elf comes to stand beside Hawke, and Felan then understands.

“Ah, nice of you to finally join us, Elf.  And now this,” Varric starts, gesturing to said elf, “is the only person allowed to refer to _Marius Hawke_ by his given name.”

Hawke turns his gaze on Felan. “Well, besides my younger sister, Bethany, of course.  Inquisitor Lavellan, meet Fenris Hawke.”

Fenris tilts his head in Felan’s direction.  “A pleasure. But, if you’re all quite done with introductions, I believe it is time to get on with what we came here for.”  Fenris’s voice catches Felan off guard, as it is like night and day comparing it with Hawke’s jovial, lilting Free Marcher accent.  If he could try, Felan doesn’t think he could place the origins of that gravelly, strained-smooth accent. “After all, we did not come out of hiding for nothing.”

 _“Gentlemen…”_ Varric uses a sweeping motion to direct everyone to the bench with the three bottles of wine that make a bit more sense to Felan now.  “They’re here because Hawke has a bit of insight on Corypheus I think you’ll want to hear.”

“Oh?  Do tell.  Also, didn’t Cassandra say she was looking for ‘the Champion,’ Varric?  And didn’t _you_ tell her you didn’t know of his whereabouts?”  

Varric takes a long swig from his ale.  “Yeah, kid, but that was before… well, before things went sideways at Haven and _Corypheus_ showed up.  The Seeker doesn’t know they’re here, by the way… so, uh…”

“We’d like to keep it that way, if possible.  Not a word to anyone as of yet.” Fenris says as he uncorks some wine, pausing momentarily to apparently appreciate the label before passing it to Hawke.  They both exchange some sort of knowing smirk when their eyes meet.

“You see,” Hawke starts, “about ohh, six or so years ago, my husband and I, along with Varric here and another… companion of ours, ventured into a dusty, old, ancient Grey Warden prison in the Vinmark Mountains.  And well, long story short, we happened upon Corypheus’s lovely, twisted mug during our luxurious stay, and we killed him.” The last sentence is spoken so matter-of-factly, and Hawke has an almost mischievous kind of smile on his face before he takes a long draw of wine, passing the bottle back to Fenris.  To be frank, Felan has a hard time believing what he’s just heard.

He looks to Varric, who merely nods in agreement, then back to Hawke and Fenris.  “I’m sorry, _you what?”_

It’s Fenris who answers Felan’s look of confused horror.  The lines around his eyes crinkle a bit as his brow furrows below three tattooed dots that make up a triangular pattern upon his forehead.  These odd markings are still peaking Felan’s interest. “We know you must be confused, or think us liars. Perhaps even assuming we are unsure of what we’d seen in that prison years ago.  But I assure you, what we are going to tell you is _true._  And whether or not this… _creature_ claiming to be Corypheus is in fact he, well that remains to be seen for Marius and I, but we _do_ trust the word of a close friend.” He looks to Varric.

“Broody!” Varric throws his hand over his heart. “You warm my heart, really!  It’s no wonder Hawke’s still mush around you after all these years.”

Hawke scowls and Fenris covers a laugh by drinking more wine. “Mush?!  I’ll have you know it wasn’t _‘mush’_ that saved Kirkwall time after time, after time, after time, aft-” Fenris smiles in earnest and slinks an arm around Hawke’s waist.  “Yes, we get it, we were _there.”_

“Well, the Inquisitor wasn’t!”

Felan clears his throat.  “Alright, tell me everything you know, and then perhaps we could all have a proper drink in the tavern?  Then the three of you could regale me with your tales. I uh… haven’t read the book you see… Hm, we’ll have to figure out a way to get up to the top floor of the Rest without anyone seeing, though.  If only Cullen wasn’t such a workhorse, we could sneak through his office, and-”

Hawke cuts him off.  “Bah, we’ll drag the bastard with us!!  I’ve got more than a few questions for him, myself.  He knows we’re here, by the way. The only other one besides you and Varric.  I’m honestly surprised their little plan to smuggle us into this fortress worked so well.  Clever ones, wouldn’t you say, Inquisitor?”

Thinking back to something Dorian had said of him earlier, Felan agrees reluctantly. “Yes… _like foxes,_ them...” He glares down at Varric.  “Alright well, let’s get on with it, then.  And Cass really is going to kill _all_ of us, you know…  So, thanks for that.”

"Inquisitor, I think your heavy-handed sense of adventure can deal with just about _anything_ these days.” Varric winks.

Felan sighs and eyes up one of the bottles of wine, then he peers out and over the parapet at the shadows that blanket the unfurling shrubbery and grass that has started to peak through the coffee-brown soil of the courtyard over the passed few weeks.  He thinks on the man awaiting him up in his room, and how he’ll do anything in his power to keep Dorian and this new sense of _home_ safe.  “I sure hope you’re right about that, Varric…”

 


	8. Feel a Second Heartbeat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“I don't have a skin like you do  
>  To keep it all in like you do  
> I don't have a soul like you  
> The only one I have  
> Is the one I stole from you”_
> 
> -London Grammar, _"Stay Awake"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now comes the time where things in this story may not seem quite so clear if you haven't read the previous two entries in this series. I tried to prevent that for awhile, but I couldn't really stifle ideas too much!
> 
> Oh! And "//" will denote POV changes again between characters in this chapter.

 

The pale blue light of both moons is telling of how long Dorian had been sat here with Vivienne - despite really getting nowhere besides knowing they’d both have more bloody research to do - and a testament to his patience on this increasingly urgent matter that he tried and failed to let lay dormant in his mind.  He’d been on his way to his room to do work and reading of his own, since Felan still seemed well preoccupied with this secret little meeting of his and Varric’s, when he decided to take a chance on confiding in the First Enchanter. She had alchemical expertise beyond his own that he quite possibly needed.

But they’d gotten nowhere, unless you counted stacking more theories on top of each other progress.

It’s getting later, and he should probably just head back to Felan’s room to wait for him, lest he think Dorian has cold feet about all of this.  Well, Dorian supposes he _does_ still, in a way, but that’s neither here nor there…

“Thank you, truly, for your time, Vivienne, but I must be going before I am missed.”

Vivienne smiles wryly at that.  “As I’m sure you would be, my dear.” Her face goes more serious, or more serene, perhaps. “You know, what you did for him, Dorian… It _is_ admirable.  You are not so selfish, after all.”

Setting his teacup down on the little marble-topped table between them, Dorian clears his throat and stands.  He smooths out his robes and glances down at Vivienne. “Yes, well, I think I preferred the _selfish Dorian -_ he got me into less blighted predicaments, you see.”  She gives him another tight smile.

“It seems to suit you, though.   _And no one likes a selfish lover, Dorian._ I am sure Lavellan appreciates your new found selflessness.”

Dorian rolls his eyes and turns to head for the entryway that will take him to the wing of the castle housing his room, but stops after a few steps.  He looks out over the main hall from Vivienne’s eagle-eye perch up here, momentarily wondering why in the world this woman would want to take up nightly residency in such an odd space when perfectly good rooms - well, maybe not _“perfectly good” -_ were available to the Inquisitor’s inner circle.  Dorian comes back to himself when he realises that it makes perfect sense that the woman who treats herself as royalty would want to affix herself _above_ everyone else.  She is something like a great, looming egret.

Turning on his heel, Dorian studies Vivienne’s equable features.  She stands by her balcony doors now, and the candlelight to her right plays a warm contrast to the cool moonlight against her flawless brown skin.  But all Dorian sees is her _mask._  Thanks to some of Felan’s words, jesting or no, Dorian can’t help but wonder if that is what people saw of him, too.

“I do hope this wasn’t part of the Game; _not this._ I need your utmost sincerity and trust in this, Vivienne. If this gets out-”

But Vivienne simply waves a hand through the air as if Dorian were merely being over-dramatic, and normally he’d be inclined to agree, but not with this.

“I understand the need for _discretion,_ darling.  It’s not just _your_ reputation that is at stake, but the whole of the Inquisition’s.  You do realise that, don’t you?” The look she gives him makes Dorian feel like a child that’s forgotten how to grasp simple things in the vein of common sense.  A look akin to the many his own mother would give him.

Dorian feigns a gasp. “No, this is all about _me,_ remember?  Oh, _of course_ I realise that!” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think I need to go talk to a friend and get him to buy me a drink.  I bid you a goodnight, Lady Vivienne.”

“You know, Dorian, you _can_ consider me a friend, as well.  We are allies in this, after all.”  Vivienne drifts over to her chaise-lounge-like bed and drapes herself onto it like a statue come to life and picks up a book atop a small stack nearby.

Dorian narrows his eyes at her, though she doesn’t look up from her absent-minded, graceful flick through pages. “I don’t much like to keep _vipers_ for friends, but _thank you,_ nonetheless.”

The smallest hint of a smile curls Vivienne’s full mouth upward, the only show of emotion in an otherwise placid façade.  “Perhaps it would behoove you to _start,_ my dear.  After all, you’re living amongst a proverbial snake pit these days, are you not?”

With the curt nod of his head and a pained grin, Dorian takes his leave.

 

When Dorian reaches one of the doors to Cullen’s office tower he’s met with an Inquisition guard who prevents his act of knocking with a side-step in front of it.

Eyes remaining forward, as if Dorian weren’t even there beside him, the guard speaks, “If you are looking for the Commander, he is currently with the Inquisitor.”

Dorian glares at him a moment.  “And _where_ pray tell would they be?  Are they having an impromptu meeting?” He gestures towards the door, but the guard still doesn’t look directly at Dorian.

“No, he was called to the Herald’s Rest by the Inquisitor, Lord Pavus… I…” Now the boy makes brief eye-contact with Dorian. “I’m sorry, I thought you would know where…” He drifts off as nervousness edges his voice and he shifts his weight from side to side.

 _Because I’m fucking the Inquisitor, yes?_ Dorian wants to add for him, but bites his tongue and thanks the young guard instead, and heads for the tavern.

Upon entering the Rest, Dorian sees no obvious signs of Fae, nor that of Cullen.  He spies Sera perched on a barstool talking animatedly with Krem and makes his way over to them.

Sera spots Dorian immediately and with a beaming smile, yanks him by the arm when he’s close enough.  “Ay, drink with us, yeah?!”

“Actually, I was wondering if you’ve seen Felan or Cullen?  Were they here?”

Trying to sit crossed legged, Sera nearly tips off her stool and grabs onto Dorian’s shoulder for balance, cackling.  “I’ll tell you if you take a shot of this dragon’s piss Bull told me about. Cabot ‘ere special ordered it for ‘im or some shite.” Dorian cocks an eyebrow at her and then Krem gives them both a wary look.

“I wouldn’t.  Nasty stuff, that.  There’s a reason only the Chief can stomach the shit.  They’re up there, by the way.” Krem lifts his chin towards the upper floors of the tavern.  

Sera scoffs and mumbles under her breath, “No fun, the lot of you,” before taking a swig from her tankard.

“And why aren’t you drinking with your dear friend tonight, Sera?  Babysitting duty get passed onto you, Krem?” Dorian asks.

 _“Tosser._ I left when madame-hard-arse started yelling and actin’ like she was gonna throw Varric out the window ‘cos of our fancy guests or somethin’.” She laughs heartily at that.  “Would’ve like to ‘ave seen _that!_ But I wasn’t getting in the way, ‘specially when she turned on poor _Ickle and Cully-Wully,_ too.  ...Oh shite.” Sera’s face goes blank all of the sudden, then she bites her bottom lip.

“What?” Dorian is getting exasperated with her drunken rambling, as well as more curious and confused with what’s going on here, exactly.

Sera looks over at him with a tinge of something that could pass for actual worry.  “You an’ him are good, yeah?”

“Felan and I?  Of course, why do you-”

“Right.  You should probably go up there.  And say hi to that falcon-champion or whatever!”  She turns back to her drink and grumbles into it, “Don’t much care for that weird elf, though.  Different kinda creepy, that one.”

Krem claps him on the shoulder.  “Good luck. I’d watch nothing comes flying at your head on your way up to ‘em, though.  Haven’t heard any shouting for a minute, so you might be safe now.”

What in the Void was going on??

 

The sight that greets Dorian once he reaches the second floor, and after first spotting Cullen’s hideous fur mantle, is a small, boisterous congregation spreading around two tables near Sera’s room.  As he winds his way towards them he’s suddenly hit with the strongest scent of lyrium in the air.  Stronger than what he could smell on Cullen, and a thousand times stronger than anything a templar recruit would give off.  The icy smell permeates the air as if someone had smashed bottles of the stuff around the group he approaches.

Immediately, Dorian’s heart tightens in his chest and he moves to Cullen, who’s thankfully sat on the outer end of a table, and he sees, right across from Fae.  But his amatus seems to be enraptured by whatever Cassandra is telling him. Dorian touches Cullen’s shoulder, turning it slightly in his grasp to make his presence known through all that fur and armour.  “Cullen?”

As Cullen turns to face him, that familiar drawn, overly-exhausted look he’s become accustomed to seeing when Cullen is feeling his worst is present; Dorian never thought he’d ever be grateful to see it, and guilt is quickly replaced by the relief that his snap-assumptions of Cullen taking up lyrium draughts again were wrong.  The question of the strong lyrium in the air goes unanswered.

“Oh! Dorian!”  By the strained sound in his voice, Dorian can tell Cullen is truly trying to be enthusiastic, but any emotion besides an all-encompassing weariness is winking away.  He probably senses the lyrium, too. Dorian wonders if it’s agitating his withdrawal.

He is about to ask Cullen if he’s alright, but just then, someone grabs Dorian’s left hand and tugs him down into a chair he has no time to question the materialisation of.  

Fingers twine with his and a sloppy kiss is pressed into his jaw that was likely meant for the side of his face.   _Oh, Fae…_  “No one’s supposed to _be heeere,”_ Felan slurs in his ear.  “But we got caught! I fucking _knew_ we would!  I tried to tell Varric… I tried to tell ‘im,” he waves in Varric’s general direction, where the dwarf is chatting with a strapping blond man and a male elf Dorian doesn’t recognise.  “that Cass would have our _bleeding heads_ if she found out!  But I calmed her down.  Isn’t that right?”

Felan lifts his chin from Dorian’s shoulder and manages to smile charmingly at Cassandra who attempts to revisit whatever previous ire she had for him by scowling, scoffing, and crossing her arms.  It doesn’t last long before her face softens just a bit.

“Ah.  So what was it that no one was supposed to know, exactly?  Surely not what you and Varric were being so hush-hush about, Fae?”

For a moment, Felan chews on his lip  (and _Maker_ that makes Dorian want to kiss him, regardless of who can see) seemingly lost in thought as he looks off to the side at nothing in particular before answering Dorian with a matter-of-fact _“Yes.”_

“Thank you for your eloquent elaboration on what's going on.”  Dorian flicks his gaze across to Cullen, who looks even more miserable as he picks at the chipped glaze on his tankard.  He stares at it, then looks off to the side before catching Dorian watching him, and then goes back to eyeing his barely touched ale.

“Dor!  Did you know that _I could turn into a dragon?_ A bloody dragon!!” Felan exclaims and twists to look at Cassandra with a wide grin.  In doing so, he brings his and Dorian’s joined hands up onto the table.

She sighs. “That is _not_ what I meant.  I simply told him of the myths and legends of Reavers passed down in Nevarra.  But they are _legends._ Mostly.  And _you_ are _not_ a Reaver, Inquisitor.  You aren’t even a warrior!  Do not get your hopes up.” But Felan is still smiling excitedly at her.  “Ugh. Maker, this is hopeless…” Cassandra shakes her head and gets up to walk around the table to Varric and the two strangers.

Dorian looks to Cullen for explanation.

The man simply shrugs.  “I told him he ought to slow down on his drinks, but…”

“But _you_ have no say in what it is _I_ do, Cullen.” Felan interjects through gritted teeth.

The commander rises abruptly.  “I apologise, but I think it's time I retire.  There are new recruits I must assign to Rylen for training tomorrow morning and I’ll need to send scouts and troops ahead of you to Crestwood, as well.  I… If you want any answers, Dorian, I suggest you speak with Varric, Hawke, and Fenris. They seem to still have some of their wits about them... _Goodnight.”_

Tugging on Felan’s hand to recapture his attention, Dorian asks, “Care to attempt an explanation again?  I’m assuming I’ll be in the dark on all of this,” Dorian gestures around the boisterous activity and prays that Bull and his Chargers don’t decide to join in, too. “until morning, so for now let’s start small, yes?  Who are _they?”_  He points their joined hands in the direction of the ruggedly handsome blond and the elf snuggled up close to him.

“Oh!  Of course, you haven’t met Hawke!  Vhenan, he’s the fucking _Champion...  of-of Kirkwall._ Like in Varric’s book… but… _reeaall.”_ If Felan wasn’t so damned drunk, Dorian might actually find his excitement unbearably adorable.  But right now, it was mediocre-level-adorable. The thought of getting his friend up many stairs and into bed, in a stumbling state, did not escape his mind.

“I suppose you should introduce us then, hm?”

Almost immediately, they’re standing and Dorian is being tugged by the hand to squish between Cassandra and Varric with Felan at his side.  Cassandra peers down at their hands that are apparently going to be permanently joined for the night, and gives Dorian a small smile. He rolls his eyes at her, trying to tamp down the blush that threatens to creep up his face.  Felan leans over the table a little ways towards the blond man, who is apparently Hawke. The buzz of lyrium, Dorian realises with a start, is from Hawke and the elf _;_ or at least, coming from around them.

The elf smiles behind a sip of wine, then speaks in Dorian and Felan’s direction.  “Riotous bunch, aren’t they? Not the most _discreet,_ unfortunately.”  Hawke hugs him close to his side again.

“Oh, I don’t know… this is all making me a bit nostalgic,” he laughs, looking at the elf with clear adoration, and the display makes Dorian feel a bit braver about his own relationship.   _Just a little._

Felan pipes up,  “Hawke! I would like you to meet, uh… Hawke, this is Dorian.  Dorian, Hawke and his husband Fenris.”

Ah, so the famed Champion of Kirkwall married an elf?  And… more obvious to Dorian, a _male_ elf.  There were continually little pleasant surprises cropping up about the way things went down here compared to the Imperium.  And the normalcy of two men - especially one that is human, and the other an elf - being wed is such a foreign concept to Dorian.  He feels a strange jealousy as he tightens his hold on Felan’s hand briefly, letting go to wrap his arm around Felan’s waist instead.  Felan looks over at him, and the tips of his ears go pink.

Dorian tilts his head in Hawke and Fenris’s direction.  “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of well, Skyhold, I suppose.   _I’m Felan’s partner.”_

And suddenly, Dorian is being cursed at in Tevene by Hawke’s husband.   _Of course._

 

The tavern door slams shut behind them and practically echoes off the stone walls around the yard.   _“Well this is a bloody disaster, Felan!!_ You’re piss-drunk, unable to tell me anything straight, and I have to find out from the others that you’re leaving in two days to go track down some Grey Warden with the _Champion._  Or how about the little morsel of information you left out about Corypheus already being fucking killed years ago.  And _Varric was a part of that with Hawke?_ And oh!  Did I mention that Hawke’s husband clearly doesn’t trust me because _I’m from Tevinter,_ and I can’t say I blame him because he shows all the signs of fucking lyrium experimentations I thought were only the stuff of nightmares?!”

Felan huffs and narrows his eyes, stopping feet away from Dorian.  “What do you want me to do?? I need to-to follow this lead! Hawke an’ Fenrisss are right, there _has_ to be a connection!  And I’m sorry, Dorian, but if there is red lyrium around in Crestwood like this Warden ‘as said, _I don’t want you near it._ You know how sick it makes you feel.  Please, let’s… let’s just go back in and talk it over some more.  Listen to more of the details they can tell you better than I.”

“Whatever for?  I’m not going with you, so what difference does it make that I know?   _I know_ I won’t be there to watch over and protect-”  Dorian stops mid-sentence when something dawns on him.  And it makes him feel helpless. “Felan, you’re bringing _Solas_ with you, and if I’m not mistaken, no mage is immune to the hum of red lyrium.  But he _is_ going.”  

Felan lets out a heavy exhale and closes his eyes for a moment, which makes him wobble on his feet a little.  His bloodshot blue eyes are filled with frustration when they open again. _“Don’t._ You know if it’s that dangerous I’m going to need… I’m going to need someone who can heal, who can _revive._ Damn it, Dorian, just come back inside with me, will you?”

The confirmation he gets weighs heavy in Dorian’s gut like turned rations.   _I can’t be with you because I can’t save you.  Not anymore._ He thinks about rejoining Felan and the others, but remembers again the looks Fenris and Hawke kept shooting him once they’d found out he was a Tevinter altus, and son of a well-known magister to boot.  His aggravation can’t take much more prodding for the night, he thinks. He shakes his head. “If I don’t have to, I won’t subject myself to being looked at with personal disdain by people I don’t even know, and have even more people here learn reasons to distrust the ‘evil ‘Vint.’  I’m too tired for this nonsense right now, Felan.”

“Dor…” Felan pleads.

“Go have your fun. _I’m not going back in there.”_ Dorian stands his ground, seeing nothing but red as if he already _is_ surrounded in the ghastly glow of tainted lyrium.

Throwing his arms out to his sides, Felan growls at him.   _“Then go, Dorian!_ Fenedhis!!”  He turns and storms back into the tavern.

 

Trying to keep his walk as casual as possible once he reaches the great hall of the castle, Dorian realises he'll have to fetch some of his things from Felan's room before heading back to his own for the night.  

_I’m supposed to stay with him tonight._

Once finally does get up to Felan’s room, Dorian makes the snap decision to just swallow his pride and get ready for bed, despite not being very sleepy.  Felan had told him to leave, yes, but not his room necessarily. And even if Felan grumbles about it in the morning, well… Dorian didn't know anything about lovers’ spats, but he _did_ know spite.

Then he'd be just as awful as either of his parents in their bitter marriage.

Dorian runs a hand through his hair and sighs.  He'd do this right… however that is supposed to happen, whatever he's supposed to _do or say,_ he’d do it right. The fact that Felan didn't want Dorian tagging along to meet Hawke’s Grey Warden contact because he can’t heal still smarts, though.  But Felan, despite his drunkenness, had seemed sincere in his worry about Dorian being around red lyrium. He should know better than to take this all so personally, and take some form of comfort that Felan is merely looking out for him, but…

This is something that could potentially bring them closer to Corypheus if this strange Calling the Wardens are experiencing has any correlation to the dark spawn magister.  And Dorian feels more than a little uneasy about letting Felan walk into unknown danger without him. _Maybe it’s safer this way,_ he muses.   _I’m going to end up getting him killed one day, a little distance might be better._

He lights the fireplace to a smouldering glow and undresses.  After climbing into Felan's bed, he smooths his hand down the cool sheets on Felan’s side and forces his eyes to close, concentrating on his breathing and mental exhaustion to will himself to sleep.

 

When Dorian wakes, it's only because of the weight dipping the mattress down by his hip.  Slowly, he rolls over and sees the silhouette of Felan's profile backlit by the small fire in the hearth.

“Amatus?”

Felan moves to pull off his boots, and after the double _thunk_ of each boot hitting the floor, he brings one leg up onto the bed, wrapping his arms around his knee.  “I feel like I'm going to fail, Dorian. Hawke protected Kirkwall for _years,_ and I can't even… I'm not _the one.”_ Felan’s voice is pained and quiet, barely a slur is present now. _“_ Cass said she'd originally sought out Hawke to help the Inquisition…  But Varric lied about knowing where he was - that’s why she was so angry with him, _with us,_ for trying to hide it from her that Hawke and Fenris arrived at Skyhold.  I think I wish he hadn't - lied, I mean. Then I wouldn't be…” Without finishing that sentence, and Dorian knows where Felan was going with it, he turns to look at Dorian through the darkness.  “That's a terrible thought to ‘ave, isn't it?”

Dorian sits forward enough to grab Felan’s arm.  “Come here, amatus.” With little resistance, Felan lets himself be pulled down to lay beside Dorian.  “And let's get these off, yes?”

A small laugh escapes Felan as Dorian lazily tugs his belt off, then huffs in annoyance when Felan doesn't help him remove the rest of his clothing.  He slides beneath the blankets with Dorian, and their legs twine together in an automatic motion.

“I'm sorry, Dorian.  I was an ass. I was worried you'd have gone back to your room, you know.”

Dorian pulls him in closer and kisses the top of his head, then tilts Felan’s chin up to place another kiss to the bump on the bridge of his nose.  He still reeks of whisky, but Dorian just wants him close now. “And I’ll have you know I thought about it. You're lucky I was feeling particularly lazy about heading back down all those steps after I got back here to grab my things.”  Felan laughs against Dorian’s neck and nips at him. “And yes, you _were_ an ass, but so was I… Please don’t be too angry with me.” he asks quietly.  “I shouldn't have snapped at you or stomped out of the tavern like some spoilt child.  So for that, I apologise. I won't however, be sorry for not liking the fact that I won’t be able to be by your side for this mission.”

“You'll miss me, Dor?”

“Of course I will,” Dorian laughs at Felan incredulously.  “I've always missed your company when I've been forced to go without it - and _don't_ let that go to your head, now.  But not just that…” The yawn against his chest is a welcome distraction from where Dorian's thoughts had wanted to wander.  “We'll discuss this tomorrow, you've got a decent amount of alcohol to sleep off for now. No more lachrymose thoughts tonight, alright?”

“Yes, fine.” Felan presses his lips to Dorian’s collarbone, then lifts his head up to capture his mouth in one slow kiss.  “It was a relief… having you here when I got back to my room. Why not just move your things here?” He snuggles back into Dorian's chest, but Dorian catches his sly smile before he does so.

Dorian chuckles sleepily.  “I think you should ask me when you’re well aware of _what it is_ you’re asking, Fae.”

“Alright, I’ll ask you tomorrow when I’m sober, then.” Felan mumbles.

“You are a most ridiculous man…”

 

//

Felan wakes with a start, chest heaving as he gasps for air.  He half-expects to feel the burn of frigid wind in his lungs as he does so, trying to come back to the reality of his room around him.

“It was one of your nightmares, wasn't it?”  A sleep-gravelled voice asks beside him. When Felan looks to its source, Dorian is moving to sit up, brows furrowed in concern.  Felan nods, throat too dry to speak.

He watches Dorian hesitate to touch him, so he leans in to his chest, and soon after, Dorian’s strong arms are around him.  “Do you want to talk about it?”

Felan is trying his best not to hyperventilate, so all that squeaks out is, “No… yes, just… give me, give me a moment.”  He slides his arm around Dorian’s waist, fingers digging into his side, and in response, Dorian hugs his shoulders tighter.

“I could make tea?” whispers Dorian.  Felan simply nods again.

Eventually, with a warm clay cup steaming between his hands, Felan is able to recount some of the imagery his ruined mind decided to conjure up for him while he slept this morning.  He tells Dorian about waking in a tent, and something feeling _off_ (he doesn’t say Aridhel not being beside him was the “off” thing); about walking out into the horrid scene of a snow covered landscape, corpses of his clansmen frozen in place as if they were running from something; skin glistening and dripping with ice - ice thick enough that he couldn’t make out the features of these people that had been a part of his daily life for so long.  

But the worst part was the frozen river.  

A small, white wolf pup had fallen through and was scrambling, clawing at the ice as he bobbed in the deathly cold, black water moving below.  His pale blue eyes locked onto Felan’s, and suddenly Felan couldn’t breathe. The little whelp’s claws left a myriad of flaking white scrapes and scratches on the frosted surface of ice, and yowling barks left his short little muzzle as he went into a frenzy.  With each bark, Felan felt himself literally freezing in place, slowly losing all control of movement. And between he and the pup, in beautiful pyrite and leather Dalish-crafted armour, was an elf - with tanned skin and long, wavy, white hair - pinned face-down to the ice with his own sword like a mounted butterfly on a library wall.  He doesn’t tell Dorian who it was.

The entire time, Dorian kept quiet, running a reassuring hand up and down his spine, letting Felan speak at his own pace.  Afterwards, he’d whispered sentiments and praises against Felan’s bare shoulder, reminding him about how brave and wonderful he thought Felan was.  Felan is ever more thankful for Dorian’s presence at his side, now as his closest friend _and_ lover.  

He spent far too many nights after the fall of Haven, waking alone after nightmares that forced him to relive the fears, pain, and horrors of that night in so many different, twisted up ways.  There were maybe only a few occasions where he’d woken up from one beside Cullen, but he would just lie when Cullen would press him with his gentle affections - Felan not wanting to worry him when his former lover had plenty nightmares of his own to contend with.

 _Creators,_ he was a right prick to Cullen last night too, wasn’t he?  He almost wishes he felt more awful than he did from all the drink he’d had last night as punishment for how terrible he’d been towards two people very dear to him.  

As they ready for the day, Felan explains what he knows about Hawke’s Grey Warden contact in Crestwood and the reports he’d given Hawke and Fenris about the place, which honestly isn’t much.  And Dorian mumbles something about _more bloody secrets_ in the middle of his morning ablutions from Felan’s washroom.

Scout Harding and her retinue had set out to ready a forward camp there around the same time Felan and Dorian had woken, which was far ahead of sunrise.  

Felan suddenly remembers something else from last night and a smile plays upon his face as he finishes tightening the laces on either side of his leather jerkin.  He saunters over to his washroom, leaning one hip against the archway with his arms crossed, and watches Dorian in his tub for a moment.

Without looking up from the lathering along his upper body, Dorian says, “Unless you plan on joining me, I’m afraid you won’t get much of a show this morning.”

Felan smirks.  “Move in with me, Dorian.  In here, I mean… I suppose we _technically_ already live together along with everyone else at Skyhold, but...”

Dorian slowly lowers his arms back into the water and tilts his head towards Felan just enough to cock an eyebrow in his direction.  “You were serious last night, then.” Felan isn’t sure if he should take that quiet utterance as a question or Dorian stating something as fact.

“Well… I know it’s… _quite_ soon, but… _think about it,_ vhenan.  Before… well, _this,”_ Felan gestures between the two of them and Dorian begins lathering his hair with soap, all while still giving Felan a skeptical look. “we spent so much time together, anyway.  We’ve always been attached at the hip. And, waking up next to each other hasn’t been so terrible, has it?”

“No, it hasn’t,” Dorian says a bit flatly, then dips his head down into the water to rinse his hair.  Felan crouches down next to the tub when Dorian sits back up. Dorian looks to him as he slicks his soaked, inky black hair back with his hands, and Felan doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dorian look this _vulnerable._ It’s as if the man has washed away layers of both physical and metaphorical barriers from his person.

Felan grips tight to the smooth metal edge of the tub.  “Look… think about it perhaps, Dorian, while I’m away. You can do it little by little, if you’d like.  Just a few items every other day, whatever you want. You’d have more space here, too.”

“Maker knows your bookcases go to waste as they are… And I never have spent much time in my room, I suppose.”

“Exactly!  You’re always in the library!  Wait… Does this mean you’re going to consider it?” Felan beams, trying not to get his hopes up too high.  

“Felan, I don’t know much of anything when it comes to… relationships, conventional or otherwise, but I want to with you, I do.  I want things to be right. _Whatever that means._ And if you’re really alright with me taking my time with it, then... I want this with you, my dear _Inquisitor.”_ Dorian smiles, and it’s so warm and genuine that Felan’s heart aches with the happiness it brings him.  He rips off his gloves and cradles Dorian’s wet face in his hands, leaning over the tub to kiss him breathless.

Dorian pulls back from the kiss and smiles crookedly.  “Maybe I’m just trying to use you for your _much more_ comfortable bed.  I _could_ have ulterior motives, you know.  ‘Evil Tevinter magister’ and all that rot.”

“Oh?  And not even what we _do_ in that bed?   _Well, you can use me, Dorian._ I…” Exhaling a shaky breath, Felan continues, heart hammering fervently in his chest.  “I love you, _past, present, or future… I don’t want anyone else.”_

Dorian’s eyes roam over his face, and then he moves forward, wrapping his arms around Felan’s neck.  “The things you say, amatus…” Felan couldn’t care less about the little streams of water seeping down the collar of his jerkin, or the fact that he’ll likely have to change already.  All that matters is the man in his arms and the lips against his. _“I don’t want anyone else, either.”_ Dorian whispers in between the passionate movement of their mouths, and Felan’s heart soars higher than it ever has.

 

//

While Felan organises reports before his trip to Crestwood tomorrow, and rearranges some of his things in his chambers to make room for Dorian (and Dorian can’t help the smile that wants to creep across his face whenever he thinks of it) he and Cullen manage to fit in a chess match in his office, seeing as Cullen so rarely wants to pry his arse from his seat at his desk.  He was surprised enough to find the man out of his usual heaps of armour and fur cloak, as it was. _Troop assignments in the morning, my arse._

As much as Dorian looks forward to these little moments with his friend, he actually _does_ have an ulterior motive right now.

He squirms uncomfortably in his chair across from the commander, uncrossing and re-crossing his legs and generally being a fidgeting mess.  Dorian tries to concentrate on the worn, wooden board before him, but he can hardly recall the move Cullen made not five minutes ago. Or had it been longer?  Regardless, Cullen finally calls his bluff.

“Are you actually _trying_ to let me win today, Dorian?” Cullen chuckles.  

Dorian sighs.  “I’ll cut to the chase, Commander.  I’ve got something most imperative I need to discuss with you.”  

A brief flush fills Cullen’s face and he swallows thickly.  “I uh… yes? Is everything alright?”

“Well, that depends entirely on one’s definition of _‘alright.’”_ Dorian eyes Cullen’s sword on the weapon rack in the corner of the room near a practice dummy, and considers for a moment the odds of whether or not Cullen is still retaining some of his Templar abilities through his withdrawal.  “First, you need to promise me, as my friend, as well as Felan’s, that what I am about to tell you does _not_ leave this room.”

Cullen’s brow wrinkles into something almost like a scowl, but the man’s face is far too kind for that.  “I… what…”

 _“Cullen, please.”_ Dorian grates.

“Alright… yes.  You-you have my word, Dorian.  But if it’s something that in any way endangers the Inquisition, as commander of our forces, I have every right to make judgement calls that go beyond promises between friends.  Please understand that, and forgive my bluntness.”

Dorian waves a hand at him.  “No, of course. I get it.” The prospect of moving into a cell beneath Skyhold was looking like a more likely outcome for him instead of relocating to Felan’s room.  Perhaps they’d go easy on him, considering the good he’d actually done, and he could work with Alexius in his private lab by day.

He leans forward in his chair and sets his elbows on Cullen’s desk, resting his chin on the knuckles of his joined hands.  “Do you remember the night you found Felan in the snow?”

“After the attack on Haven?  Of course.” Cullen’s eyes trail to the chessboard.  “Vividly…”

“Then I’m sure you’ll recall the spell I performed on him?”

“Yes.  Dorian, I’m sorry, but where are you going with this-”

“It was a form of spell in the realm of necromancy, Cullen.  My… _specialty.”_

Silence stretches and pulls at the atmosphere in the room and Dorian finds himself fidgeting some more under Cullen’s intense, questioning stare.  “He is himself, _rest assured._ I don’t,” Dorian grimaces. _“dabble with demons or blood magic._ But what I did to bring him back… His spirit crossed over to the Fade.  Because he’d been there before, physically, the pull upon his very lifeforce was incredibly strong.

A spirit of the Fade was ready to leave in his place, but I sent part of myself over to strengthen Felan.  Effectively, tricking this spirit into _staying put_ and believing Felan was… well, _alive.”_  Dorian watches as the muscles in Cullen’s jaw tighten.  

“Is there something wrong with him?” Cullen asks, clearly trying to keep his voice calm and even.  But the emotion is there, and it makes the next truth Dorian must lay bare all the more difficult.

“Not exactly, no.  Sometime after that, I began experiencing random bouts of extreme dizziness, almost to the verge of blacking out.  I merely brushed it off as not getting enough sleep or needing to eat more. But then it happened on the Storm Coast.  I fell to my knees in the middle of battle with those fucking Hessarian cultists because of it. And then I noticed Felan, bloodied on the ground, several feet away.  The feeling inside me was more unbearable than being Silenced by a Templar or having my mana drained. It felt like I was _dying,_ Cullen!  Before the last of my energy was blotted out I saw a green glow emanate from around Fae, and he lifted off the ground - Solas had revived him.  But when that happened, _I felt the pull from it too._ And suddenly I sensed something else within myself that I can’t put to words, Cullen.  I… I can’t quite explain to you _what_ that felt like, but it was there, along with the pain.  But then that wretched, empty, _sickening_ weight disappeared entirely after Felan was revived.”

Cullen stands so abruptly he practically sends his chair flying off its legs behind him.  “Maker’s breath, Dorian! What are you telling me?!”

Dorian didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know how exactly, and it was only after I did extensive research in the matter, but… I figured out that _somehow,_ our spirits, our _lifeforces,_ intertwined when I performed that spell.”  Dorian rakes a hand through his hair, currently uncaring if he wrecks the hard work put forth on his image.

He looks to Cullen, who stands backed up against the wall as if he were terrified of being near Dorian, but his face says otherwise.  Flames dance their light across his golden eyes, reflecting the anger within him that threatens to lash out. Dorian wishes he could tell him more, assuage some of his fears, but the whole bleeding thing has remained a mystery to him for months now, as well.

“What… what does it mean?”

Feeling utterly crestfallen, Dorian shakes his head.  “I don’t know exactly. The spell effectively took something from me, and connected it to something within Felan, and… _vice versa,”_ he says, grimly.

Cullen turns and braces one hand on the stone wall, rubbing his forehead roughly with the other.  “Maker… _shit._ Can it be fixed?  Undone??” He peers over his shoulder at Dorian, and Dorian decides to weasel around answering the question directly with what he _does_ know.

“Lady Vivienne and I are working on that.  There are certain alchemical applications that could be applied that may sever the tie between us, or at the very least, weaken it.  I promise you, when I know more, I’ll let you know without hesitation.”

“If he dies… because _you do… “_ Cullen laughs bitterly, and it causes a cold shock to creep through Dorian.  He turns around, truly angry now. “Is this why - why you two are _together_ now?!  Is this all some false affection conjured up by your damned spell, Dorian?!!  And now the price Felan must pay for your selfish lechery is _death_ if _you_ should fall?!”

Now Dorian is standing, but not before slamming his fist down on the desk - jostling the chess pieces from their squares upon the board.  “I fucking saved his life because I _cared for him, Cullen!!_ Because he is _important!_ What I _feel,_ what _you_ feel, has no bearing on anything until that blighted dark spawn magister is killed for good.  You love him, yes? Am I correct??” Cullen just stares at him in shock, nostrils flared.  “There’s no use lying about what’s already clear as day, Cullen.”

Quieter than Dorian expects, Cullen answers, “I… yes.  I do.”

 _“Good.”_ Cullen’s eyes go even wider when Dorian says that, but this truly isn’t about what they feel, jealousy and egos be damned, it’s about _Felan._  “Then you know how I feel, and what it is like to watch him go off, risking his life for people that spit at his feet because he is an elf, no matter that he is the only one who can save them!  You know the ripping, burning feeling of _not_ feeling like you’re worth his time, and _you know you’ll do anything to fucking protect him!_ I don’t regret saving his life, Cullen.  Don’t ask me to. But I regret that in doing so, I became his biggest liability.  His truest weakness.” He paces away from the desk for a moment before walking back and slamming his palm down, meeting Cullen’s gaze.   _“I will make this right, even if it kills me to save him.”_

Just then, there’s a rapid, insistent knock at the door to his right.  They both jerk upwards at the sound, and Dorian attempts to smooth out his appearance by touch alone.  

A runner enters after Cullen goes to the door, the man seemingly out of breath.  He eyes Dorian with surprise before turning his attention back on Cullen. “Commander, Sister Nightingale requests that you meet with her and the Inquisitor in the rookery at once.”

Cullen thanks the man, shutting the door harshly behind him and approaches the ladder leading to his loft.  The knuckles of the hand gripping a rung go bone-pale.

“If you’ll excuse me Dorian, we’ll discuss this further another time, perhaps.” The Commander’s voice bares not an ounce of the ire it had mere moments ago.  Even still, Dorian can’t help but feel he’s strained one of the only true friendships he had in this Void-forsaken fortress.

“Of course.” Dorian turns to head out the door behind him, but is stopped by Cullen’s voice.

“Dorian?  Will you be a part of the group travelling to Crestwood?”

Dorian knows full-well why Cullen is asking him this, and so he answers without facing him.  “No, I’m afraid not.”

There’s a whining creak from the ladder rungs, and the sound of a boot sole moving against the wood.  The hasty response Dorian gets as Cullen ascends the ladder is just as expected: _“Good.”_

Dorian feels as if he can’t get out of this stifling tower fast enough.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A twist! Kinda? So, shit's hitting the fan, and Dorian still can't say those _three words._
> 
> Title comes from a line in one of the books from the Nightrunner series, my favourite!<3
> 
> Again, kudos, comments, and feedback always appreciated! :3


	9. If You Don't Lead with Your Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Let there be shade.  
>  Un-illuminate.  
> Nothing will change  
> If you don't lead with your shadow._
> 
> _I was on the shoulders of leviathans,  
>  But I couldn't see through the fog of anger.  
> And I failed myself like I did before.  
> My work is lost. All my reckoning.  
> Back to sin. Back to shame.  
> Back into the quicksand."_
> 
> -Every Time I Die, _"Just as Real, But Not as Brightly Lit"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****Warning for description of injuries from battle and minor character death.**
> 
>  
> 
> And now comes a part in the story I've been excited about and thinking on for wayy too long. I introduce to you, my other OC elven son<3

There is a damp, pale fog that crowds around the plaines, keeping true sunlight from highlighting the tall grasses.  Caws of ravens and groans from the wounded are the only sounds, and it seems the fog wants to muddle those, too. The grass is still weighed down a bit from the rain the night prior, but Aridhel can clearly make out the heavy metallic smell of blood mixed with wet earth as he crawls amongst it.  Some of it, likely his own reaching his nostrils now.

The further he drags his body, the more he can hear: the clod of horse hooves and murmurs in trade tongue he can't quite decipher from this distance.  He wonders bleakly if the shemlen are Inquisition or the miscreants of Wycome who’d turned their blades against the clan and any Inquisition soldiers who’d arrived.  Any will or strength to fight has not returned to Aridhel as of yet since he regained consciousness not long ago. Numbly, he hopes it’s just the Inquisition.

 _But too little, too late,_ he sneers to himself, thinking on the help they'd received at his own plea to Felan weeks ago.  The Inquisition soldiers had arrived in a mediocre retinue just as Aridhel was trying to evacuate the rest of the clan from the city after some paranoid noble had murdered the Keeper as she pleaded with those thick-skulled zealots of the city to hear reason.  He remembers they were going on about some sort of _knife-ear plague_ during the end of the clan’s time of refuge within the city’s alienage. Deshanna and her First had asked to see those who were ill and tried to offer help, but it was violently turned away.   _Those fucking dhar’vhen!_  They’d even threatened to get Templars involved before taking matters into their own ungrateful hands!

Aridhel reaches an aravel that is mostly intact.  He leans against the wood, using a broken mast to hide behind, pulling the wet, red, canvas over his form a little more while he assesses the damage done to his light armour, and his body.  He’d not had time to gather his good, heavy armour when they were forced to hide within the city walls after another bandit attack, and Aridhel suffered for it. His tunic is slashed through on the left side, and the green fibres are bloodied-brown along his torso.  The blood has seeped down passed his belt to the material that drapes over his left thigh as well. He took a hand-axe to the side of his other thigh too. But luckily, the guard was half-delirious and wounded, and his swing only had enough heft behind it to cut through Aridhel’s mail and leathers, but barely into the muscle beneath.  It still hinders his mobility, though. Aridhel had ended that human’s life with the quick plunge of his blade beneath the man’s arm as he lifted his axe to swing against Aridhel once more.

Removing his stiff leather gauntlets to better inspect his wounds, Aridhel raises one hand to his face where a small cut had long since stopped bleeding across the swelling of his right cheekbone - all thanks to a pommel to the face.  He’d been distracted… _Oh, Vie… why did you try to play the bloody hero?!_

 _No._ No, he can’t afford to be distracted by mourning the dead now, or he’ll quickly become one of them.  The worst of his wounds is that sizable, long cut across his side, and he is certain at least two of his ribs are cracked, too.  His breathing feels clear, but the pain is agony, especially since his stealthy crawl across this makeshift battlefield reopened the wound.  The blow had also cut through one of the straps to the sheath of his claymore, but he’d still managed to drag his weapon along with him. For a moment, Aridhel glares down at the crescent moons of carved-bone that form the crossguard.   _Damn you, Felan._ He would have to perhaps find some way to quickly repair the strap or find another sheath sturdy enough to use while pilfering bodies.  Every minute that passes is time sliding away from him to continue being unnoticed by humans of _any_ sort.

Aridhel grabs the knife at his belt and cuts away a section of fabric along the hem of his tunic, stretching the material until it rolls in on itself and becomes thin enough to tie back his mass of blood-matted waves.  Once the majority of his hair is out of his face, Aridhel works at the deep wound on his side. He tries tucking the torn green fabric inside the wrecked chainmail to cushion it against his tender, ruined flesh. It’s uncomfortable, but it’ll prevent the metal from rubbing once he fashions some sort of bandage to staunch the bleeding.  He just needs to get to the tree line. It’s a bit far to go unseen, but in this dim morning light and fog, perhaps he can chance it, despite the pain that hobbles him.

Aridhel hears the sudden clunky roll of wagon wheels nearby.   _More broken and battered aravels, likely._ There are human men calling orders to others about _bodies,_ and _landships,_ and words he doesn’t quite recognise.  Another, a woman’s voice, barks something about gathering weapons and destroying _red lyrium._ Aridhel recalls the Inquisition’s lieutenant who'd arrived, arguing with the city’s soldiers about this apparently tainted lyrium - he wonders if it is her voice he hears.  Whispers in their ranks said this lyrium made people go into extreme madness. Mad or no, _shemlen still slaughtered all of his people._

Briefly, Aridhel wonders how Felan will react.  Will he still praise his precious shem-army once word reaches him in his precious fortified castle, that his mother and sister have been slain despite it all?  The Inquisition’s forces had failed to quell the lyrium and hysteria-induced madness of most of Wycome’s denizens hastily enough. And yes, they had taken their own losses, Aridhel had seen these unfortunate men and women run through beside his own, but Clan Lavellan had bore the full brunt of this human hatred and blame...  Simply because they were elves. Elves had brought this “plague of lunacy,” they’d screamed!  And it was _always_ because they were _elves,_ wasn’t it?  Forever the scapegoats, just as it always would be.

The pungent smell of strange smoke snaps him back to the task at hand.  It’s thick and almost resembles cooking meat mixed with wood too green to yet burn well, and Aridhel realises with a quiet horror, that the Inquisition soldiers are carrying out large funeral pyres.  The feeling shifts to thankfulness that at least the bodies of his fellow clansmen will be taken care of properly, and not left to be carrion for scavenging wildlife, and he sends a silent prayer to Falon’Din and Elgar’nan before finishing tending to the wound on his torso.

Aridhel uses his knife once more to cut at the canvas from the aravel now.  He rips and cuts three strips as wide as his hand, tying them around his waist just tight enough to stop the bleeding and hold his aching ribs.  Another, shorter strip is tied above the cut on his thigh. It’s cold and wet, and he’ll have to find some sort of herbs to cover his wounds so they don’t fester, but it will do for now, he surmises.

The fog has begun dissipating, but the dark, billowing smoke mingles within it.  Aridhel presses his back against the aravel behind him as he steadies himself with his sword, hefting his body up and biting back any groans of his own for the pain he feels lighting his nerves on fire.  His injuries protest every movement, but he quickly makes his way across the field, trying his best to dash towards the bodies that tamp down the yellow-green grass before him.

He periodically checks behind him, but he’s far enough away now, he thinks.  The bright flames of the pyre lap and cut through the grounded clouds that unfurl back through the air, but the smell is fainter now.  The third body Aridhel stumbles across, almost literally, proves useful. By the armour alone, Aridhel knows the man is an Inquisition soldier before even turning him onto his back and seeing the red, emblazoned symbol staring back at him from his chest.  With deft hands, he divests the man of his sword sheath and hurriedly straps it on. His claymore now hangs a bit lower against his back than he’d like, throwing him slightly off-kilter, but he deems it good enough - and certainly better than carrying it in hand - and trudges on.

Aridhel makes it all of ten feet more before something - no, _someone -_ catches his ankle.  His bare feet slip on the wet grass, and with a hiss, he falls down on one knee beside a dying soldier rasping out pleas for his life.

“Serah… _pl-please…”_ The man has clearly taken a mortal wound to the abdomen, not far below his ribcage; the blood still slowly pouring over his fingers in little sporadic gushes as he tries to suppress the flow.  The hand still clinging to Aridhel’s ankle now slides away to join in the futile, weak compression over the wound, and Aridhel grimaces at the glossy red left on the leather of his leggings.

Eyes roaming over the soldier, Aridhel spies a small coin purse.  He is glad for his wide knowledge of shem-trade with coin, and decides this man no longer has any use for it.  Aridhel quickly cuts the knot of the leather thong holding the purse to the dying man’s belt. He reaches for Aridhel again, but his bloody hands are shrugged off while Aridhel ties the bag to his own belt.  

“You wish for salvation, my friend?” Aridhel looks the soldier over once more.  Deep red sputters from his mouth now, and Aridhel hovers close, only looking upward for a moment when he hears voices in the distance again.

 _“Yessss… plea… please… help-”_ Hands grapple with the material at Aridhel’s arms and shoulders, and he jerks his head away from the man’s desperation, lest he get bloodied spittle across his face.

With force, Aridhel folds the man’s arms down across his gut. _“Where is the Inquisition stationed?”_ Aridhel asks vehemently.  He affects an air of desperation in his usually bright, lilting voice. “Where is the hold of _the Inquisitor?_  I am of _his clan._  It is imperative.  Please, know me by the markings upon my face.   _Help me,_ and I can offer you my own aid.”

The soldier gasps for a breath.  “A castle… the… Frostbacks.” His Ferelden accent struggles to form the words in between pathetic gasps for air.  “Sky. . . hold.”

“The mountains??”

 _“Yes,_ serah.  Please...”

 _“Thank you.”_ Aridhel’s fingers still curl tightly around the hilt of the knife in his gauntleted hand as he makes his decision.  He places the palm of his free hand against the helm of the man beneath him and he bows his own head as if in prayer.  Closing his eyes, Aridhel whispers in elvhen, “Elgar’nan, give us _glory!_  Give us _victory_ over the Earth that shakes our cities.   _Strike the usurpers with your lightning!_   _Burn the ground under your gaze.  Bring Winged Death against those who throw down our work…_ Elgar'nan… please, help us tame the land.”

When Aridhel opens his vivid green eyes again, he stares directly into the soldier’s with a steely, unmoved gaze and brings the knife to his throat.  “Ir abelas, I fear I can only offer you the deliverance of my blade, shemlen,” he states with contempt, and in one swift motion, parts the flesh of the man’s throat and windpipe.  As Aridhel ducks away from the splatter of more blood he mutters, _“Never again shall we submit,”_ under his breath and stands.

  


Tracking the Inquisition would be harder than Aridhel would like, considering how badly wounded he is… not to mention the fact that before entering the wood, he had happened upon the body of one of his archers, Elisedd, and taken his bow, quiver, and water skin after thanking his spirit and sending it off with another elvhen prayer.  It’s a moderately heavy, but mostly awkward load. He’d already planned on leaving behind the bow after gathering enough small game to travel with. A shame, really, as something so well crafted could likely fetch a decent price as he passes through human cities later… though Aridhel isn’t entirely sure shem would recognise decent, durable craftsmanship over the showy, extravagant looking weapons they themselves made.

While finishing gathering enough of the little soft, pale grey-green tendrils of fen’laveth from tree branches overhead, along with a few sprigs of elfroot, Aridhel thinks about Felan again.  He wonders if the bow he carries, like the quillon of his own sword, was also crafted by him. The thought makes his burden a little harder to bear.

After un-shouldering the weapons, he sits heavy against a thick tree trunk where large stones offer him a natural workstation beside it.  He takes a smooth, rain-cleaned stone he’d found in his wanderings and begins mashing the spidery Wolf’s Tail lichen into a poultice mixed with the elfroot.  Grimacing as he unties his makeshift bandages to apply the concoction, Aridhel inspects the wound over his ribs again. He can’t be certain, but he’s sure the mottling of bruises has started to blossom beneath the veil of blood.  A few ginger touches and smears along the deep slash, and Aridhel re-ties the red canvas strips around his middle, then pats a bit of the light green paste along the cuts on his face and thigh as well.

As he gathers and rolls the leftover poultice into wet, green leaves to stow into one of his side pouches, Aridhel thinks of Una - Felan’s mother, of their revered Keeper, Deshanna, and of the other elder women of the clan who’d taught him little things such as this.   _You all deserved better than this.  I am so sorry I could not be your protector when you needed me most.  It isn’t fair!_  They were all his surrogate mothers, and now they were all gone.  He sniffs back hot tears, but one escapes from his burning, emerald eyes.  “Please know I _tried…”_  

Aridhel licks the tear from his top lip, tasting the warm salt, and once again makes a vow of vengeance to Elgar’nan that he will find some sort of justice for his people, even if he must force the hand of the man he once meant to be bonded with in life and love.  He would do it. _Da fenlin, I will make you pay for your constant hesitance, and I will open your eyes so that you might see_ no _human can be trusted!_

Trade, he learned and knew well, just as his own self-taught game of lies and manipulation to have the more weak-willed men of human cities eating from the palm of his hand after worshipping his body.  A bitter smile curls his lips as Aridhel thinks on the promises of luxury or rescue from his “barbaric” and nomadic lifestyle he’d heard plenty of times. He would use these types of idiot men again if he had to to get by on his long trek southward.  Afterall, he had not much by way of coin for inns or food and wouldn’t have time to properly dry and tan decent pelts to sell.

Bat his lashes, hold firm a coy smile across his pretty, angular face, and exaggerate his already thick Dalish accent for more “exotic” or even naive affect, depending on the man.  They were too easy, Aridhel almost pitied them.

But for now, Aridhel wants nothing more than to distance himself from Wycome as quickly as his injuries and daylight will allow.  He stands, gathering his weapons, and prepares to track for a hopefully successful hunt, reminding himself to never again become prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohh my dear, morally ambiguous, bitter Ari<3 In case anyone wants to know, Aridhel's first name means "our protection in the night" in elvhen, and his middle name, Conrí is Irish Gaelic for "wolf king." I know this chapter was a departure from Felan and Dorian and the inner circle, but I really needed to properly introduce Ari into the story finally!
> 
> *dhar'vhen = lit. dog-people (obviously used as an insult lol)  
> **fen'laveth = Wolf's Tail (I made up my own healing lichen after one in real life that has antibacterial properties)  
> ***da fenlin = little wolfling (as a term of endearment)
> 
> Comments, kudos, and feedback appreciated! Even if you hate Aridhel! He is a difficult character, after all.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @thefire-in-the-nightsky, and/or twitter @nauka_o_ogniuXV!


	10. Sweet Penance for a Sound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"O Falon'Din  
>  Lethanavir—Friend to the Dead  
> Guide my feet, calm my soul,  
> Lead me to my rest."_
> 
> \- Elvhen prayer for the dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  *****Warnings for descriptions of battle, injury, and mentions of blood (none of which are too graphic), as well as minor character death(s).**  
>  ** "//" denotes character POV change in narrative.
> 
> I edited this relatively quickly because I'm impatient, and this is my longest chapter yet! So please let me know if there are any major errors! Also, this is the first time I've written a fight sequence of any kind, I hope it isn't terrible!!

 

A heavy, wet crunch, and Felan’s daggers rip free from the misshapen skull and shoulder of a red templar as he gives a swift kick into the man’s cuirass.  When the dead soldier falls backwards from where he’d slumped to his knees, pieces of the tainted lyrium snap and break free from craggy, ruined pauldrons into the dark mud below.  For a brief moment, Felan thinks about grabbing up the broken shards for either Dagna or Helisma to study back at Skyhold, but thinks better of it when he remembers he doesn’t have any small, protectively-charmed satchels with him for such a task.  Instead, Felan sneers down at what used to be human and flicks blood and rainwater from his blades before sheathing them back in place at either hip.

Behind Felan, Sera makes a dramatic, uneasy sound to accompany the violent shudder that runs through her while she tries to pull at the arrow shafts sank deep into leathery flesh of another templar-monstrosity.  “Right, you can keep that one,” she says to the large corpse, and shoves it with her boot where one of her arrows is lodged between two large red lyrium crystals protruding from its chest. The many spirits and Undead of Crestwood have his friend’s hackles raised more than usual.

“Everyone alright?” Felan asks with more grit to his voice than usual.  

“Yeah… that was close, though, right?  Getting too big for yah breeches, ay Ickle?” Sera smiles over at him, wiping her arrowheads on the wet leather of her thigh.  “Blechhh! I feel… _gross.”_

“I wasn’t expecting more walking corpses, but... the templars needed to be taken care of,” he explains, voice flat, though he pants with the spent energy of battle.

Felan isn’t sure it is out of agreement, but Cassandra sends him one solemn nod as she gives the bodies one last look over, likely sending a prayer to the Maker and Andraste for their twisted souls.

Sidestepping the soupy stain of a gutted Undead’s remains along the trail, Felan continues on, trusting the others will follow.  It is Solas who hurries after him first. “You are still hurting for those villagers back there and being careless because of it,” the other elf states and gently touches Felan’s shoulder. “You engaged in a fight we did not plan properly for.”

Felan glares back at Solas’s sad eyes and scoffs.  “I don’t really see anything wrong with taking out what I'm feeling on _red templars._ Especially seeing as I can't take it out on the person most deserving of a blade.”

“Your brutality with the Highwaymen at Caer Bronach was not satiating enough, I take it.”

While the battle at the keep two nights ago _did_ do something for Felan, his mood is still dour; he is bone-weary exhausted, the day-and-a-half long rain shower has left his leathers wet and uncomfortable, and they’ve begun to chafe.  The entire atmosphere of Crestwood as a whole has saturated Felan with an eerie gloom and he _desperately_ wants a drink.  He can understand now why Bull and his men insist on bringing casks of ale with them for long journeys.  Felan rolls his shoulders back and looks to Solas. “...I’m going to find that rat-faced son of a bitch and drown him myself if I have to.  Perhaps not today, but we _will_ find him.  Charter is going to look into where Gregory could have run off to.  She’s already sent a raven out to Leliana. Together they will know how to find him.  I’m sure of it.”

“And you do not think that will make you no better than he, Inquisitor?  Surely you will listen to his reasonings first and give him a fair and proper judgement?  You did not even reserve the blade of execution for Gereon Alexius...”

Before he can say something he regrets, Felan takes a couple calming breaths, but pointedly ignores that last remark about Alexius.  “I really don’t want to hear anything about _‘desperate times, desperate measures-’_ right now, thanks.  Or whatever it is you’re going to say to try to convince me that that spineless bastard deserves to go on living after he murdered people who _trusted him!”_  Felan roughly throws the dark material of his shawled hood back off his head, letting the cool rain ease his flaring temper as it pelts his hair and forehead.  He can still feel his ears twitching back in anger. “You saw those wraiths and spirits, Solas - _we all did.”_ Felan’s speech is still quickened with vehemence. “That should be proof enough that what Mayor Gregory did has caused more than simple fucking unrest in this dreadful place.”

Felan can feel Solas’s gaze on him as they trudge on.  Though Sera and Cassandra are quite a ways behind them to hear, the older elf says more quietly, “Weakness of the Veil seems to be made worse by what happened here, but it does not necessarily go hand-in-hand.  In death, those villagers are not yet free, yes, and they linger within and feed upon all of the pain, sorrow, despair… and even rage here. But there are other ways with which we can help without the taking of one more life.”

Felan doesn’t keep so quiet, his sure voice cutting through the constant din of rain. “Oh, I have already discussed with Charter, that I want her to send a small company of soldiers from Caer Bronach to help Sister Vaughn collect the bodies she seeks for a proper pyre.  Last night Cassandra and I passed along the information to her as well as the location of the bodies we found. They’ll be taken care of.”

“I know you are not Andrastian, but it _is_ much appreciated, Inquisitor.” Though it is said loud enough for him to hear, Cassandra’s voice holds a softness he rarely, if ever, hears.  Felan turns his head and dips his chin in her direction, then looks back to Solas and whispers in a hiss, “But surely they deserve _justice;_ something equal to what they succumbed to!”

Solas sighs and gives Felan a pointed look from the depths of his own soaked hood.  “Justice, yes. And peace. But _vengeance_ is a burden you can choose to not live with, lethallin.  Mayor Gregory is not worth what that will do to you. Is your ire drawn from somewhere else, I wonder?”

“What do you know of what burdens _I can_ and cannot bear?  And my ire…” His mouth curls in a bitter smile. _“He was supposed to protect them and he…!”_ Felan covers the emotional crack in his voice by clearing his throat.  He doesn’t understand why the Void Solas cares so much about what a bit of well-deserved revenge will do to Felan’s conscience. _Another burden to bear?  Tch. My conscience doesn’t have_ room _for anymore “burdens.”_

“I know by the way you ask every Inquisition officer we run into for word from Skyhold, that the possible fate of your clan is weighing heavily on you.  Your worry eats at you. But your clan’s influence is apparent in the strength you possess, and it is surely a testament to their own doggedness, Inquisitor.”  In so many words in Elvhen, Solas then finishes by telling Felan he believes Clan Lavellan will make it through this hardship of theirs in Wycome; that Felan showing them his unity with the Inquisition and its forces will prove to his people that what he is doing is right.  Felan wishes he could give in to that kind of hopeful thinking and not the quicksand-sinking that pulls at his heart with each day that has passed without word on the situation there.

“I don’t know what you think _you_ know about me or my clan and what I am feeling, but you’d do well to drop it, _hahren.”_ Felan picks up his pace, soft leather boots slipping against the wet grass as he walks with renewed purpose and a want for the shelter of a dry tent.  And if he’s completely truthful: the desire to leave this corrupted, depressing place and get back into the arms of his vhenan. Before the group had parted ways with them after meeting with the Grey Warden, Stroud, being around the casual, lived-in affections of Hawke and Fenris for weeks had left Felan with more than a few spikes of jealousy, and a healthy dose of longing for Dorian.  Ah, and _that_ whole bleeding mess with the Wardens and Corypheus is dampening the atmosphere around them more than the rain and bloated bodies of Undead.

Thankfully, Solas keeps silent until they make it back to the North Gate campsite, where all attempt to dry themselves out by a guttering fire after the rain finally lets up.  Harding lets them know that Hawke, Fenris, and Stroud passed through the day prior to head back on to Skyhold. Unfortunately, she also lets Felan know that no news from the castle has come their way for him.  In the morning, they too will make their way to Skyhold, and he requests that Scout Harding send word to Cullen for him about the Wardens’ plans.

Slightly disheartened, Felan sits next to Sera on a large, waterlogged piece of wood and makes distracted endeavors to clean and oil his daggers by the light of a lantern and the fluttering flames of the campfire.  They discuss the “old-wives” tales Sera had heard about arrow fletching feathers in her times with the Friends of Red Jenny, and Felan tells her of the little Dalish lore concerning June he knows, to many a scoff and rolled eye from her.  She also half-seriously jokes with Felan about helping him brush up on his long-dormant archery skills some time after they return home. _Home…_

That thought shouldn’t make him sick with guilt.

Conversation among the four of them dies down to intermittent opinions on their upcoming journey to the Western Approach in Orlais.  He wishes Blackwall were here to discuss this with, and finds it curious and a little disconcerting the grizzly man hadn’t bothered to mention this strange, false call to Felan.  He’ll have to look into the matter later, as he needs the utmost trust in his inner circle - and that road should go both ways. If Corypheus should succeed in gaining himself an army of Grey Wardens, well… Felan must be sure of where Blackwall’s loyalties absolutely lie, as well as his state of mind.

He is also anxious to find out Dorian’s opinions on Warden-Commander Clarel’s want to use blood magic to head off another possible Blight, especially considering their apparent trek to an ancient Tevinter tower in the Western Approach to complete some sort of ritual.  The thought of Dorian again does nothing to mitigate his mood. Oh, he’d missed Dorian’s company and conversation the times he opted not to bring him on their erstwhile missions and explorations before, but nothing like this. Felan feels this distance and the passed few weeks keenly.

Now resting his head in Sera’s lap, he lets exhaustion seep further into his body while she finishes braiding his hair back down the middle of his head.   _“Voilà!”_ she exclaims with a terribly gaudy, put-on Orlesian accent that jars Cassandra from her reading nearby.  Felan sits up and pats down along the top of his head, and frowns at the feel of things sticking out from the braid in random spots.  “What did you put in my hair?” he asks.

A wide grin slants across Sera’s freckled face as she eyes her handiwork with pride. “Flowers, ‘course!”

“There aren’t any-”

Felan stops when he hears Cassandra sigh before speaking in monotone, “It is _grass,_ Inquisitor.” She rolls her eyes in annoyance then quietly goes back to her reading.

“Awe, yer no fun!!” Sera yells passed Felan.

His jaw drops as he attempts to pick out the long blades of grass woven into his hair, “Oh, you little shit!”  He laughs when Sera runs off towards their tent. _“No!_ Come back here and help me get it out, right now!  Sera!” When he ducks into the tent after Sera’s loud snickering, Cassandra shakes her head with a small smile, her eyes not once leaving her book.

 

Somehow, the week it took to get back to Skyhold did not feel nearly as long as Felan expected it would once they were on the move.  It is still a huge relief to ride into the familiar courtyard and even more so when, from a distance, Felan catches a glimpse of dark skin and darker hair coming down the steps outside the main hall to greet him.  Along with Dorian, a small group of other Skyhold residents and guards begin crowding around. The excitement surrounding him and his party’s returns will never fail to warm Felan’s heart a little.

Felan rides Dearg towards the stables as Dorian nears, and when Dennet grabs his reins, Felan throws his left leg over Dearg’s back to sit side-saddle, then launches himself down into Dorian.  Despite being thrown off guard, Dorian quickly catches Felan with a surprised gasp. Dorian chuckles and looks around them, a hint of a blush now noticeable across his high cheekbones. Still fighting his apparent unwavering shyness about their more public signs of a relationship, Dorian gives Felan a genuine, adoring smile and hugs him tightly.   _“My amatus,”_ he says in Felan’s ear before pulling away to help relieve Dearg of satchels and saddlebags - though Dorian does it with a bit of wary hesitance that makes both horse and elf snort in amusement.

“He’s just as misunderstood as you, you know, Dorian,” Felan says while stroking a hand down Dearg’s boney face below where the old rusted sword blade juts out.

Dorian gives him a dubious look over Dearg’s back.  “Perhaps, but at least _I_ am attractive.”

“Rude!  Don't you listen to him, you're lovely,” he consoles his unwavering mount. “Come on, Dorian, I’ve much to tell you.”  Packs in hand and slung over shoulders, they make their way towards the castle. Felan keeps feeling lighter and lighter with each step he and Dorian take together.

Nudging his shoulder, Dorian asks Felan, “Am I to assume nothing good?”

“Oh no, but there may be a healthy dose of blood magic involved! ...And… I am very much in need of a bath, I think.”

“Blood magic?  Interesting, indeed!  And you’re in luck, I had the servants begin drawing you a bath when the first horn sounded at your approach.  Perhaps _luckier still_ is that I know more than one way to relieve the _tension_ buzzing off you in waves after you tell me of your little jaunt in Crestwood with the Champion.”  At that, Felan gives him a wry grin and they pick up their pace through the great hall.

 

“There's sand upon _sand_ in that desert, you know,” Dorian starts in a veiled complaint while petting Felan’s still-damp hair where he lies draped over Dorian's lower half.  Felan’s tattooed arms are crossed to pillow his head over Dorian’s bare stomach as they lounge in bed through easy conversation, though the topics themselves are anything _but_ easy.  “I'm not looking forward to that, but I can't say my interest isn't very much piqued at why the Wardens would choose to use an old Tevinter ruin for this mysterious ritual of theirs.  And well, the fact that this _Stroud_ believes their mages to be corrupted by Corypheus in some way does indeed augur unfavourably, yes?”

“No, certainly doesn't bode well for us at all...  This all just gets more and more worrisome and strange by the day.”  Felan shifts over towards Dorian’s side and rests his chin on his stomach then looks up with a small, sad smile.  The fingers of one hand make slow passes around Dorian’s navel then down through the thin, but coarse manicured trail of dark hair below, causing Dorian’s abs to twitch intermittently.  

“I’m glad you’ll be coming with me, though,” Felan admits, trying to sound a little optimistic.  They'll be leaving in two days time, but Hawke, Fenris, and Stroud will be heading out at sunrise tomorrow morning to meet up with Scout Harding at the Inquisition camp to investigate before them and send a report with any intel they can gather.

“I’m not used to this,”  Dorian says in his quiet, serious-voice. “I missed you terribly, Fae, and I _hated_ it.  How _dare_ you make me feel like this?”

Felan laughs and moves to kiss the dipping edge of muscle along his lover's hip bone. “As I understand it, it’s typically not the most pleasant thing to miss someone.”  Dorian swats his head lightly, and Felan stifles more laughter by biting his bottom lip. He pictures Dorian mooning over him here in his tower amongst the small gathering of personal effects he’s commingled with Felan’s while he was away.  And _Mythal help him,_ it’s a stupid, silly thought he entertains, but having someone waiting for him again… it’s truly something. _“I missed you too,_ _vhenan.”_  He sighs.  “That place was fucking miserable.  I still need to speak with Blackwall about all this Grey Warden-Calling stuff… _and_ to Leliana about locating that bastard, Gregory.”

“Hearing about what happened to those villagers so long ago really affected you…”

“Dorian, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.  I just… I don’t understand how someone could willingly drown their own people.  Can you?”

“Sacrifice a few to save many and all that, yes?”

Groaning in frustration, Felan grabs for the sheet and pulls it over his head, and in doing so, covers Dorian up to the waist.  He feels Dorian’s laughter before the richness of it reaches his ears. “Are you quite done moping or are you planning on doing something else down there?  If so, I’ll get more comfortable, but you _do_ know how I like to _watch._ No small pity you’re blocking my view.” Felan can hear the smirk in Dorian's voice and nips at his toned stomach before pulling the sheet down to crawl up his torso.  Sinking down onto his elbows, Felan lets their bodies meet, and Dorian pulls him down into a deep kiss that leaves Felan’s mind blessedly numb.

 

//

On his way to the door leading to the stairwell of Felan’s tower, Cullen passes Dorian who wears an incredibly smug look.  Dorian only gives him a passing glance, but Cullen notes the way his normally impeccably styled hair is slightly tousled, and swallows down any and every type of feeling that raises inside him.  He cannot let the thin film of distrust he has for Dorian now ruin his friendship with the mage. And surely, Felan wouldn’t appreciate it. Somewhere deep inside, Cullen knows what Dorian did for Felan months and months ago had no malicious intent behind it.  He believes quite the opposite, actually. But that does not mean the thought doesn’t make him more than a little uncomfortable and worried.

 _At least Felan had a moment with him before this,_ Cullen thinks and climbs the first set of stairs.

Upon reaching the first landing of the tower, he stops - the report in his hand feeling like a leaden curse that he is about to bestow to someone he still considers a close friend after... well... He cannot think that way any longer.   _I have no right!_

Cullen leans against the wall to get his bearings and looks down at the parchment in his shaking hand.  His grip on those lines of hastily written words tightens, and the paper crinkles around his fingers. He remembers the conversation he'd had with Josephine and Leliana only a couple hours prior.

 _“We could not have known so many of the citizens and soldiers of Wycome would have reacted in such a way.  And we did not know how deep their red lyrium taint had gone. Clearly, neither did the duke. Commander, you do not have to be the one to tell him.  I will break the news to him,”_ Leliana had offered.   _“And I still don’t believe we should wait - better to get it over with now.”_

Josephine had abandoned her quill and parchment board to wring her hands thoroughly, with a permanent line of worry in place between her neat brows. _“Or what of Dorian?  Surely hearing it from him will be easier on the Inquisitor, no?”_

 _“No!  I would not put this on_ Dorian.” Cullen had scoffed. _“And I don’t agree with overwhelming the Inquisitor with the news of his clan being wiped out as soon as he arrives back.  Let him rest for a bloody moment or do… whatever he needs to before we spring this on him. At least give him_ some _time to have peace!”_

Both women’s brows practically shot up their foreheads in unison at his fervor.

 _“This was_ my _decision making that I pushed the Inquisitor into agreeing with.  And now_ he and his clan _suffer the consequences.  I should have listened to the both of you… I should have thought it through longer, let_ Felan _decide and deliberate without my… my personal_ attachments _getting in the way of what the right plan of action would have been._

 _He should have been allowed to speak to either of you at length first, but I got in the way of that because I selfishly took his feelings on the matter as those of my own by way of misplaced sympathy!  I wanted to help_ protect _something dear to him, prove that I… still could.  And all it… all I did was ruin_ everything.   _No, I will tell him of this myself and that is to be the end of it.”_

Cullen had made his argument and still sticks by it, even now as his pulse quickens and his insides tie themselves in uncomfortable knots.

And this failure in judgement is all the proof he needs that his mind is not sound enough to continue as the leader of the Inquisition’s military branch.  Surely Cassandra will agree when he hands in his resignation to her tomorrow. Rylen had been taking care of things quite well as his second-in-command in the Western Approach, so stepping down now wouldn't affect their current issue with the Grey Wardens there.

Perhaps he could even put in a good word to Cassandra and Josephine that the former knight-captain would make a worthy replacement for him.  The man had more than proven himself and his loyalties. And Rylen wasn’t losing his blighted mind to the throws of lyrium withdrawal.

When Cullen finally reaches Felan’s chamber door, his nerves get the best of him and he knocks more urgently than he means to.  After a moment, he hears Felan’s voice on the other side, “Vhenan, you know-” The crooked smile that greets Cullen and _that word_ he’ll never forget the meaning of, make this all that much more difficult.  But the smile falls quickly and a blush creeps up along Felan’s chest and neck.  It seemingly follows and blooms through the lines of vallaslin that are exposed beneath the slouchy, unlaced front of his loose, grey shirt.

“Cullen.  I’m sorry, I… Come in.”

Cullen follows Felan up the steps to his room proper and watches as he drifts on bare feet to his rumpled bed across the way, picking up a wide belt to fasten around his small waist.  Frozen in place in front of the fire, Cullen averts his eyes from Felan’s bare forearms when he tugs the tight sleeves of his shirt up. _It is weak moments like this that helped get you to this point, Rutherford.  And he is no longer yours. He will no longer be even a friend to you once you tell him what has happened._ In chastising himself, Cullen remains silent, and pulls the letter from his cloak.

Felan turns and points behind Cullen, “Tea?”

Seeing the kettle hovering over the flames, Cullen answers in barely more than a whisper, “No.  No, I’m alright, thank you... Inquisitor.”

“Inquisitor?  This must be serious,” Felan says with a grin, but it falters when Cullen glances down at the letter and unfolds it.  “Cullen… what’s wrong?” The tiny uptick in worry that bleeds into Felan’s raspy-smooth voice quickly turns to fear when Cullen doesn’t immediately answer. “What-what is that?”

Cullen sighs and wishes he didn’t have to read these terrible, horrible words for Felan.  It somehow feels wrong and intrusive, though Cullen himself has read it so many times he’s lost count.  “A dispatch… from-from uh, Lieutenant Rozellene…”

“About…?” Felan doesn’t need to finish, because Cullen knows exactly what that speculative, hopeful look accompanying one word is asking, specifically.

“Yes.  I’m sorry, Felan…”

 _“Sorry?”_ Felan cocks his head with the forceful question and crosses his arms.  When Cullen doesn’t elaborate after a few slow-moving seconds, Felan snatches the paper from Cullen’s hands.  While his brow furrows in concentration, Felan’s eyes make careful scans through each written line. For a brief moment, his lips move silently over the struggle of words he cannot unfurl the meaning of.  Cullen is struck with the memory of how Felan’s ability to read was always hindered by anxiety or a foul mood.

“I-I can read it for you. _Let me... Felan.”_ He reaches out a hand to touch Felan’s shoulder, and is glad Felan lets him gently pull the dispatch from his stiff grip.  But Cullen thinks Felan already understands what this means by the way one tear makes its slow tumble down his cheek as he blinks.

Cullen takes two steps back away from Felan and reads aloud:

 

_Commander Cullen,_

_Our forces marched upon Wycome, but even with many of the town's soldiers weakened by the sickening effects of the red lyrium, they had a significant standing army.  Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel entered the city with a contingent of Dalish elves and attempted to use magic to alleviate the effects of lyrium withdrawal for many of the city's victims._

_Unfortunately, her actions caused some of the more maddened nobles to attack, and they refused to listen to reasoning from neither the Dalish nor our own forces.  When more of our soldiers entered the city to help evacuate the elves, these citizens attacked us as well. In the fighting, Duke Antoine was slain protecting Istimaethoriel from his own nobles.  Fires started by the battle spread throughout much of the city, costing the lives of many citizens, and most of the remaining nobles of Wycome are either dead or have fled the city it seems._

_As the city fell into madness, we were forced to retreat. The remaining forces of Wycome did not pursue us, but instead fell upon Clan Lavellan in their rage.  They fought valiantly, and we did what we could, but I regret to inform you that the Dalish clan was entirely destroyed._

_I recommend the Inquisition withdraw from the area. While reports of our activities are scattered and contradictory, it can only hurt the Inquisition's reputation to continue making enemies in the Free Marches.  We have also gathered and destroyed any remaining red lyrium from the area._

_Please send our sympathies and regards to Inquisitor Lavellan and inform him his people were given proper funeral pyres and we meant no offence if this is not the Dalish way.  Understandably, we could not wait for word back of what to do with the bodies._

_\--Lieutenant Rozellene Chambreterre_

 

The letter was a bit cold and to the point, Cullen now realises after reading it, his voice fittingly wooden and devoid of emotion.  He lets the creased parchment float to the ground the moment Felan begins shaking his head, muttering, “No… no, no, no, _no…”_

“Felan, I’m so sorry, I-”

“All of them?!” Felan’s pale blue eyes are cold with the hurt brimming within. “Surely… no, no, there must be… Cullen, there must be _someone!_ You said they’d be…”

Suddenly, Cullen’s legs carry him forward, and Felan falls into his waiting embrace, desperate fingers tangling into the red and black fur of his mantle.  His own hands grip tight around Felan’s shoulders and he whispers against snow-white hair, “I’m sorry, this should have never happened. Hate me if you must… If I had-”  Felan pulls away enough to look up at him, tan face glistening with tears in the fire light.

“Hate you?  You mean to blame yourself?” His voice is stretched thin and it tears at Cullen’s insides.

Forgetting himself, Cullen cups the side of Felan’s face, letting the leather of his glove soak up the tears that continue to fall from narrowed eyes.  “I _failed_ you… and your clan.  I should have advised you better than this, Felan.   _I_ wanted to be the one to-to help you with this matter and instead I’ve cost you a fatal mistake.  And I am prepared for the repercussions.”

Felan’s brows knit angrily, but Cullen doesn’t remove his hand from his face, and Felan doesn’t back away.  “Stop apologising, Cullen! I don’t want to hear you blaming yourself for _this._ I followed through with this strategy because… because I thought it was what sounded _safest_ for them.   _I_ thought it is what would have protected them!”

“And I failed you in that regard!  I should have come up with a better solution than brute force!  Or at least let you think on Leliana’s suggestion longer. Perhaps _her plan_ would have been better suited for this...”

“You weren’t _there,_ Cullen!!  You don’t know what the better alternative would have truly been!”  Felan’s breath begins to quicken rapidly as his voice rises. “None of us do… No, no… you don’t get to pity yourself over this, too.  And you’re never going to learn that _it isn’t your fucking duty to protect me,_ are you?  Let alone my clan…”  He scoffs and chews at his wobbling bottom lip, eyes darting away from Cullen’s face, then back again. _“I_ couldn’t even protect them when _I_ should have!!”  Cullen is so overcome by the way Felan’s voice breaks that he almost misses the sound of a door closing behind them, and the footsteps that follow.

“What’s going on??” At the unmistakable sound of Dorian’s voice, Cullen drops his hands from Felan and backs away, too afraid to meet his friend’s gaze as the man quickens his steps to Felan’s side once he sees how upset he is.

“Dorian… they’re all gone… they’re all dead…”  

“What??   _Oh, Fae… no…”_ Felan sobs quietly into Dorian’s shoulder as he gathers up his broken form.

From the corner of his eye, Cullen watches a small vignette into Dorian and Felan’s intimacy with each other, and realises that Dorian can give Felan the kind of solacing affections and love he would never have been able to continue with because of the man he once was, affecting the man he is today.  For a moment, he can peer beyond the dark clouds clinging to this large room and be _glad_ for Felan - that he has someone like Dorian to care for him in a time such as this.  And perhaps, a time such as _all_ of this.  Even still, he begs of the Maker that there is some way to detach this… this awful, magical bond between them… for Felan’s sake.  And though he hates himself for admitting it - _for all of Thedas’s sake as well._

Within the hearth, steam from the copper tea kettle billows out in white plumes as water boils over and hisses into the flames below.

“I-I should go…”  Cullen rubs the back of his neck and turns to leave just as Felan and Dorian lend their attention towards the fireplace.  He retreats down the stairs with haste and decides it might be best to hole-up in his office for the rest of the day. There is no one in need of the poor company he can offer.  Not any longer.

 

//

With frost covering his fingertips, Dorian removes the over-boiling tea kettle from the flames.  The ice sizzles when he touches the hot metal handle. He quiets the fire down with a small movement of his right hand, then turns back to Felan.  His heart plummets when he sees him - Maker, just standing there! Felan’s face is unreadable, save for the way his brows pinch together slightly and the steady trickle of tears that fall from his eyes.  His breathing has evened out and something about it unnerves Dorian.

On his way to the fireplace, Dorian had grabbed up the damned letter from the floor and reads it over now.  He sighs and looks upwards as if entreating the Maker will do them any good right now. “Shit…” he says under his breath.  He has half a mind to throw the dispatch into the flames.

Instead, Dorian refolds the crinkled paper and sets it on the stone mantle, then approaches his lover slowly.  “Amatus, do you… perhaps you should lie down. I’ll get you some tea. Do you have any-”

“I don’t want to lie down, Dorian!  And I don’t want any bloody tea!” Just like that, life springs back into Felan like a corpse suddenly reanimating.  And in the same way Dorian has watched that happen, at his own hands no less, there is something… _off._

Dorian will be the first to admit, comforting someone in need - let alone a _lover -_ was never his strong suit.  Even still, he worries Felan is about to spiral.  Kaffas, Dorian probably would if put in Fae’s position… perhaps not with family such as his own, though.

Moving towards Felan more assuredly, Dorian comes to stand in front of him and places his hands on Felan’s waist below his belt.  He tries to give a reassuring squeeze to Felan’s hips, but he remains unfazed, staring downward and off to the side.

“Felan?” Dorian brings the knuckle of his index finger to one tattoo-lined, silvery eye and brushes away a tear threatening to spill, then places his hands on either side of Felan’s warm face. _“Please._ Talk to me, _amor meus.”_ His pleading is only met with a sniffle and a fleeting meeting of the eyes.

Felan pushes past him and begins hurriedly lacing up his shirt.  “I… there might be someone left. Survivors. I have to…”

_“Felan…”_

“I have to-to go l-look.  I need to see if… to see if they n-need my h-help.”  Felan’s voice wavers and hitches dramatically on the brink of sobbing again.  “My fam… family, Dorian… t-hey n-need _me.”_

Dorian suddenly hugs him from behind and stills Felan’s hands as they trip over the simple act of lacing his shirt front.  “Amatus, breathe. _Breathe._  You know you cannot go to Wycome, and you know the truth of this situation and that letter, yes?”  That earns him a sniffle and a wet, teary exhale. Felan breathes in and out deeply, then nods finally.  “You’re going to send yourself into an attack, and you need to be calm. Running off and getting yourself killed won’t do anyone any favours.  And I… I don’t think your mother and sister would have wanted that.”

Another nod and sniffle.  Dorian kisses the back of Felan’s head.

“Leliana… she… she makes me breathe with her.”

Hugging Felan a little tighter, Dorian says, “Then listen to my breathing, Fae, and follow what I do, alright?  I’m here… Just listen, and breathe. _I’m here, Fae.”_

Soon enough, the only sounds in the room are Dorian’s easy breaths, followed by the occasional stutter in Felan’s.  The quiet of the mountains blocks out all else around them.

Felan places his hands on Dorian’s at his stomach, unlinking his fingers, then steps towards the stairs.

“Felan, where-”

With his back to Dorian, Felan holds up a hand to shush him, and that hand turns to a balled fist before he lowers it.  “I… I’m calm now. But,” He roughly wipes the drying tears from his face a few times. “I need a drink. Alone.”

“You’re going to the Rest, then?”

Felan still doesn’t turn to Dorian, one hand on the bannister now.  “No,” he shakes his head. “I’m going to go grab some wine. Then I’m coming back up here.”

The hidden meaning in Felan’s words hits Dorian suddenly.  “Felan, you can’t just…”

 _“Dorian.”_ Felan turns to him then, and _Andraste’s arse,_ but his voice and the look on his face is so broken, so pleading and _hurt._ And Dorian cannot find it in himself to let his temper flare over it or take it as a personal affront that Felan wants to be alone.

It doesn’t make it any less crushing.  And he doesn’t know what to do with that feeling.

“I… I see,”  Dorian says numbly.  “I’ll be in my room, should you so need me, amatus.”

Dorian is thankful that Felan takes his leave first.   _You think I’d be used to being_ shunned _by now,_ he scoffs to himself and goes to collect anything of his he might need back in… his own room, for the time being.   _Venhedis,_ he hopes it isn’t for long.

 

//

The early morning saw to Cullen’s sleep-deprived fatigue as it always had, and he sits at his desk, looking over stacks of missives, troop movements, and various reports once more, signing anything he must for his last day as commander of the Inquisition.

The horn sounds for someone's arrival, causing Cullen to sigh deeply.  He hopes it isn't anyone of importance that he'll have to show his face for, and _really_ hopes it is no one that will interrupt his plans for the day to speak to Cassandra.  Perhaps visiting nobles looking to raise their status by association, and Josephine can usher them away into her office to talk about _this one_ or _that one's_ lineage.  He isn't in the mood, and he can more than guess that Felan won't likely be taking visitors today.  Hopefully, whoever it is will be respectful and understanding of the Inquisitor’s bereavement.

Another sip of lukewarm, bitter, gritty coffee, and he stands to finish strapping on his armour, then makes his way to the battlements from his office.  

Cullen attempts to act as natural as possible while thoughts create a roiling storm in his mind.  He hadn't packed much last night, unsure of whether he'd be immediately forced to leave Skyhold, or if they'd let him room elsewhere in the castle until further notice.  No need to get too ahead of himself, his nerves remind him.

While making his way across the courtyard, Cullen decides to set morning training in action for their soldiers before he goes to see Cassandra about his resignation.  After, perhaps, he'll pull Krem and Iron Bull aside and quietly ask them to watch over his men. They needn't know why until everything is finalised. And by then, Cassandra will know what to do.

Life around Skyhold trickles in through sounds of stalls being set up and Dennet ordering around the young stable hands; through pairs and small groups heading into the tavern or passed Cullen towards the main hall for breakfast.  Those few that always seem to overstay their welcome at the Herald’s Rest pull themselves up and out of the bottoms of their cups, or a bottle, by their bootstraps and wander to their respective rooms, wincing at the golden morning light that follows them at their backs.

Just as he makes it up the main steps of the castle, Cullen hears a raucous commotion behind him.  He turns on his heel to look to look over the courtyard and quickly makes it back down the stone steps two at a time, careful not to lose his footing in his haste.  He hears murmurs of a curious crowd approaching from the hall as he takes off in the direction of what appears to be an intense scuffle.

Two of the guards at the barbican struggle with man in a tattered brown cloak, trying to pull him back away from the yard and towards the gate again.  It takes what feels like seconds for Cullen to get close enough to hear the man yelling through the fight.

“...to the Inquisitor!!  Where is Felan Lavellan?!?   _Get off me!!_  I _must_ speak to him!!!  I must,” the stranger lets his weight fall back into one guard that has his thin frame from behind, holding his arms. “see the Inquisitor!!!” Another guard rushes forward, but the stranger lifts one leg to kick him weakly in the stomach, and as the guard grabs hold of his ratty boot, the stranger pivots his weight to the side, quickly kicking the guard in the side of the head with his other foot.  The strange man struggles free of the other guard and grabs a small stiletto from his belt, then slips and falls to a knee.

“Who is this invader?!  What’s going on here? Men!  Don't just stare! At the ready!!”  Cullen bellows to any other guards or soldiers who may be nearby.  He assumes it’s a run-of-the-mill bandit testing his apparent bad luck, by the state of him, until the man uses his knife to cut free his cloak ties, revealing a long, dirty white ponytail atop his head and… a formidable claymore strapped to his back.  Securing the dagger at his boot, he hastily unsheathes the longsword as he rises and turns on the men who move to engage him.

Cullen also notices… this stranger is no mere bandit, _but an elf._

The guard previously trying to hold the stranger back rushes to the other poor sod the elf had nearly kicked unconscious, and one Inquisition soldier moves to attack.  Though the elf seems incredibly fatigued, he catches the lunging soldier’s blade in a sloppy parry, sliding his shortsword away with surprising force. When he moves to swing on the soldier behind him, the elf falters, favouring his left side greatly.

“Move back!” Cullen calls and motions to the soldiers moving to surround the flagging elf.  Clearly, this man has travelled here for good reason, and it wouldn’t be the first time Cullen has seen the elements and starvation drive someone to madness.  He doesn’t want there to be a fight if he can reason with the elf, but he knows he must remain circumspect of the situation.

“I demand you to halt and drop your blade, stranger!!  Or I _will_ be forced to cut you down!  Tell me who you are and why you have come here seeking out the Inquisitor.”  The elf is still bent over with one hand on his knee, but turns his head at Cullen’s voice and continues to catch his breath.  In his right hand, he doesn’t let go of his longsword, though the blade slowly falls downward in his weakening grasp. Slowly, he pushes himself up to standing and tries squaring his shoulders.

Stalking now towards Cullen, the elf demands in a heavily-accented Dalish cadence, “No, you tell _me,_ where is Felan Lavellan?!  Where is your Inquisitor, shemlen?!” He sneers up at Cullen, green eyes flaring like the Breach.

Cullen’s grip on the sword pommel at his hip goes white-knuckle tight as the elf gets closer.  Without another thought, Cullen yells to the soldier nearest him who carries a sword and shield.  “Soldier, your shield!” he calls and extends his hand, the soldier obeying without hesitance to throw Cullen his shield.

The elf sees this as an indication for attack and takes a weak swing at Cullen.  He blocks easily with the shield, despite not having time to get his arm beneath the straps of it.  He holds the tiring stranger’s claymore back towards his left shoulder with the shield and pushes down against him with all the advantage of height and weight Cullen has over him. “What do you want with him?” Cullen growls.  At this proximity, Cullen notices faint bluish lines of tattoos across the elf’s dirty face that greatly resemble Felan’s.

 _“If you don’t get out of my way, shem-filth, I will remove you myself!”_ the elf grits out and pushes back at Cullen, catching him off-guard with strength Cullen thought he’d forced out of him.   _Was that some sort feint?  Or sheer luck?_  In that split second that Cullen needs for recovery for a counter against the elf’s raised sword, his enemy uses it to send a knee into Cullen’s side, grabbing the dagger from the boot of his lifted leg all in one fluid motion.  He slices at the inside of Cullen’s elbow above his vambrace, causing him to drop his sword, but just as the thin blade catches Cullen’s jaw, he brings his shield down into the elf, knocking him out instantly with the swift bash.

His men look on, bewildered.

“Alright, Commander?!” one of them yells.

Cullen’s pulls his right glove off and his hand finds the line of his jaw.  His fingers come away bloodied, but the long slice feels shallow, he’s sure.  His sword arm, however, smarts; and within seconds, Cullen feels the wet warmth of blood trickling below his thick undershirt and vambrace to drip down to his palm.  He’ll need a healer, but he doesn’t think the damage is severe. “I'm fine. Blighted elf fought dirty like a _rogue._ Maker’s breath… someone grab me a tent rope there or something to bind his hands with.  Quickly, lest he comes to!”

He kicks away the claymore and steps lightly on the elf’s forearm so as to cautiously grab for the stiletto where it's still limply held in his palm.  Hiding the blade in one of his own boots, Cullen inspects the elf and rolls him over.

Smiling inside at the cut he’s caused the tenacious elf above his right brow, Cullen also notices a mostly healed wound that graces one wind-blown cheek and his terribly gaunt appearance.  Then Cullen sees the soiled bandages around his middle and his eyes widen. Cullen isn’t the only one who will apparently need a healer. When a guard brings him rope, they make quick work of securing the unconscious elf’s wrists behind his back and Cullen hefts him up into his arms.  He weighs practically nothing. Cullen doesn't understand how anyone so clearly on death's door could put up any sort of fight, let alone one like _that._

“He… he used the Inquisitor’s given name, didn’t he, Commander?” the guard asks while eyeing Cullen’s wounds.

Cullen realises that yes, _he did._ But there isn’t time to think on that.  “I'm taking him down to the cells. Notify the healer to come down after me, and find the Inquisitor at once!   _Now!_ And I want two more guards stationed at the gate.  Keep your eyes open, men! He likely only travelled alone, but we can’t be certain!” he barks.

 _“But just who the bloody Void are you?”_ Cullen whispers and heads across the yard with this mysterious man in tow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I've never hit the double-digits in terms of chapters with anything I've written! Thank you to all who've stuck with me through this passion project of mine<3
> 
> *amor meus = "my love" in Latin.


	11. Speratum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You looked at what the light shined on, not where it's shining from, didn't you?  
>  You find what you need only when you need to find it  
> Yeah, I did it too  
> I knew I was alive ‘cause I used to want to die, but not anymore  
> Now I'm trying to be, but old hearts won't let me sleep  
> I hear them in the floor”_
> 
> -Every Time I Die, _"Two Summers"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wherein shit kinda goes down, no one shuts up, but Dorian and Fae actually have an adult conversation!
> 
> I was half-tempted to just call this chapter, "Every one is a goddamned mess."

 

 

 

“What do you mean, _you can’t find him?!”_ Cullen looms over Jim with eyes aflame.  “Check the libraries!”

“I-I did, Commander, but he wasn’t there, either ser.  And… And that weird elf, he said he hasn’t seen him cross through the rotunda this mornin’,” the runner replies.

A second runner, Aldin, approaches beside Jim and tells Cullen, “That tranquil girl… she said the Inquisitor usually visits with Lord Pavus up there, but neither ‘ave been ‘round since Inquisitor Lavellan been back.  I didn’t want to bother Sister Nightingale, or I would’ve ask ‘er, too. But best not worry her if they ain’t missin’, aye?”

Rubbing his forehead, Cullen sighs wearily.  “Alright, then… they _must_ be in the Inquisitor’s tower.  Go back, and knock _louder._ I regret disrupting the Inquisitor’s rest, but… this is imperative.”

Aldin side-eyes Jim, then elbows him before saying gruffly, “This one ‘ere already checked.”  Jim gives him a look that reveals aghast betrayal. “He tried the door and it was unlatched. Said he was, _‘just poppin’ in to see.’_ But I stayed put, Commander.  I wasn’t tryin’ to invade no privacy of the Inquisitor’s!”

“Maker…” Cullen feels a migraine crawling up the sides of his skull thanks to these two incompetent fools.  “Jim, _you_ go to Dorian Pavus’s rooms, and Aldin, report to Sister Nightingale at once and tell her what’s going on.  And if neither of you get information on the Inquisitor’s whereabouts, _keep looking!_ This is a castle, not a damned hedge maze!”

“Where is the prisoner?”  Cassandra approaches with two guards trailing behind her, voice booming around the cold stone walls of Skyhold’s prison.  She glares over at Gereon Alexius through his cell before the two men behind her prepare to take him to his closely guarded research room for the day.  

Aldin and Jim scurry away quickly as the Seeker nears Cullen.  She peers in through the open door of the elf’s cell and gives a small gasp.  “Is he… _“_

The elf is lying prone atop a bedroll on an old cot while a healer strips away most of his meager, threadbare clothing and scuffed leather armour to tend to his wounds.  She works by the hovering, warm light of a few small fire wisps that make Cullen feel a touch uneasy. Soon, the elf is left bare from the waist up, and Cullen averts his eyes to the open mouth of the dilapidated prison.  The sight of snowy mountain crags causes a faint chill to run up his spine. He turns back to Cassandra.

 _“He’s fine._ He put up quite a fight.”

“Though I’m not sure how he managed.  This wound here,” the healer, a middle-aged, comely woman with a blunt tongue points to the elf’s slashed and scarring side while she wads the old, soiled bandages up, “is all festered in between parts that have mostly healed.  Looks to me like a deep wound from a sword that wasn't cared for properly. I’m surprised he had much fight left in him at all, the poor sod… though he bested you good, Commander, didn’t he?” She smiles over at Cullen knowingly.  

Cassandra catches the glint in the healer’s eye which brings her full attention to Cullen’s right arm.  The ruined sleeve of his undershirt had been cut away, revealing the bandages that wrap around where his bicep meets the crook of his arm.  Cassandra raises a disapproving eyebrow at him and crosses her arms. If she notices the angry, red line tracing the edge of his jaw, she says nothing.

“And why does he live?”  Cassandra asks and looks over Cullen dimly as he shifts to lean against the wall..

“He… I didn’t think him enough of a threat at first.  He struggled with our guards, yes, but he seemed more wild with hysterics and exposure than that of a true violent nature.”

Cassandra walks closer to Cullen, then grips his chin, turning it roughly to examine the cut.  She pushes his face to the side with a little admonishing shove before releasing him. “And _that_ was because he was mad with starvation too, I take it?”  She clicks her tongue as her eyes narrow. Her biting sarcasm and disappointed glare make Cullen feel like he’s just a gangly kid back in the templar barracks, receiving reprimand for not polishing his armour properly.  Perhaps now is not the time to even consider telling Cassandra of his resignation - _later then._

Trying not to grimace, Cullen explains, “He was wearing a cloak at first, hiding his sword.  I tried to get him to drop the weapon, but he persisted and turned his blade on me. I did not see it wise to kill him if possible, lest we lose our chance at finding out why he was seeking out the Inquisitor… so I um… incapacitated him, so to speak.  Though I… may have paid for that decision.” He rubs at the stubble on his face where the flesh is still tender above the wound.

“That cut on your jaw will heal up fine with another healing potion, Commander.  Stop being stubborn. Don’t want another mark on that pretty face, hm? Though, that arm of yours might leave a nasty scar.  I’d take it easy training those men of yours for the few days to be safe.” The woman seems to know that she’s causing Cullen’s ears to heat.  He also feels the flames of guilt nipping his heels. _I won’t have to worry about that, soon enough._ He clears his throat while rubbing the back of his head nervously.

Walking through the doorway of the cell, Cassandra looks to the elf then the healer, asking her, “Has he been sedated at all?”

“No, Lady Seeker.  He has not even stirred.  I'm afraid he's a bit concussed, so I'd prefer to rouse him, if possible, once I'm done caring for these wounds.  I’ve already healed the frostbite to his ears and feet. Those worn boots and gloves of his didn’t do much for the cold.  I’d say he’d been travelling quite some time on foot.” The elf’s side is now covered in some sort of viscous green salve that reeks of herbs and the woman is working a damp cloth about his face, dabbing gently around the swelling of his right eye where Cullen had caught him with a shield.  A small cut bisects his thin, dark brow.

“I’d prefer it as well, if we are to get answers from him.  And no need to be so… _gentle_ with him.”  Cassandra looks over her shoulder at Cullen, a grim look set in her strong features. “And the Inquisitor is on his way?”

“Well… um, _yes._  I sent runners to fetch him, Leliana as well.  He uh… the elf that is, knew Felan’s name. And while that may not be particularly worrisome any other time, as I am sure one could find out if they tried hard enough or spoke to the right people, but he _is_ clearly a Dalish.   _That_ might mean something.”  

This close to the small cell, Cullen feels the tingling of the healer’s magic as she moves her hands across the elf’s side.  The wafting smell of the salve grows a little stronger.

“Yes, I see he has faint vallaslin.  Wait, Cullen you don't think… ?”

 _“Andraste_ preserve me… I don't know.  But if…” Cullen pinches the bridge of his nose.  “The report said… I… I don't know…”

 

//

Dust motes carry across the room through thin hazes of sunlight just starting to fully find their way through Dorian’s window.  It _must_ be too early, but he’d had a fitful sleep all morning thanks to the welcome distraction of the weight beside him.  With a melancholic smile upon his lips, Dorian pivots onto his side and gathers Felan into his arms. His back is a solid warmth against Dorian’s chest, and Felan shifts around lazily for a brief moment before stilling in his sleep once more with a quiet little huff.  

The memory of Felan coming to his door late last night washes over Dorian’s mind like cold tide waters, edging him further into wakefulness.  

Felan had been near-drunk on the wine he’d promised to seek out to surely drown his sorrows in, and Dorian can’t blame him for it.  He’d done it himself a time or hundred for _less_ awful reasons.  They hadn’t talked about how Felan was feeling after he’d shown up - Dorian not wanting to press the issue, nor make him feel any kind of guilt for sending him away.  But, he hopes Felan will cope better today… or at the very least, let Dorian be there for him, even if it’s only through the comfort of shared silence and one another’s company.

But apparently, silence is much, too much to ask for in this blighted castle, for someone comes so very _rudely_ knocking at his door.

“Lord Pavus?” the muffled, Ferelden voice on the other side calls.  Afterwards, Dorian hears what sounds like mumbled conversation between two people.  Perhaps if he doesn’t answer - no, no - more damned knocks, these even more fucking incessant than the last set of raps!

 _“Fasta vass…”_ Dorian scowls in the direction of the door.  Felan even begins to stir. _Damn them._ Not that they know, but… _even still!_ He tries his best to extract himself from around Felan without waking him, then grabs his discarded silk robe from where it had landed on the chair in the nearby corner last night, throwing it on with haste before swinging his chamber door open.

He looks askance at the two runners that greet him.  “Yes? What in Andraste’s name could be so-”

“Who isss it, Dori?” A tug at his heart, and Dorian turns to see Felan drowsily burrowing into the warmth of his vacated spot in bed, tugging his pillow close with his eyes still shut tight.

“Ah, sorry to… interrupt, Lord Pavus, but the... Inquisitor is needed down in the jail immediately.” The man’s eyes dart back and forth from him to Felan, so Dorian takes a half-step forward, closing the door enough to block the runner’s view of the bed.

The other man whispers something about going to see Leliana and takes his leave, eyeing Dorian with slight contempt before he goes.

Chilly morning air finds the gaps in Dorian’s light robe, making him all that much more impatient.  He keeps his voice low and asks, “Can you tell me what’s going on? And how did you even know- Nevermind that, actually.  Why is Fel- _the Inquisitor_ needed in the cells?  It isn’t Alexius, is it?”

“No, messere, not the… magister… but, I’d prefer to tell the Inquisitor about the matter myself.  Please,” he holds up his hand to Dorian in a placating gesture, “take no offence, it’s only…”

Suddenly, Dorian feels arms slide around his waist, and the front of Felan’s body brushes up against his as he rises onto his toes to rest his chin on Dorian’s shoulder.  Dorian’s heart feels like it wants to burst straight through his chest. _“None taken,”_ he says to the runner as he glares at the man, then looks over his shoulder at Felan.   _Oh, sweet Maker, he’s fucking nude._ Dorian rolls his eyes, turning his head away to lean his forehead against the door in slight second hand-embarrassment.  He stretches his arm out to clutch the door frame so as to further hide Felan’s naked body with the curtaining drape of his robe sleeve.

Dorian gives the runner a tight smile.  “Well now, _here he is,_ look at that!”

“What’s the matter, Jim?” Felan asks nonchalantly.  And _of-bloody-course_ Fae would know the names of all the blasted people in this hold.

The man - _Jim,_ shuffles about uncomfortably, then explains in a hurried tone, “Well, this morning there was an intruder of sorts - an elf.  He come through the gates and gave everyone a right scare yelling for _you_ specifically, Inquisitor.  The guards tried holding him back, but he fought ‘em off and then the commander… well, he tried calming him down too, apparently.  But, word is Commander Cullen put him down.”

“He killed him??” Felan’s voice is strained with tension and sleep.

“Oh!  No, no Your Worship!  He knocked ‘im out cold after they fought.  Commander’s a bit cut up, but no worse for wear, methinks.  Least… he didn’t seem like it. But, since this elf was calling for you by name, Commander wants you meeting him down at the jail cells immediately.  They’ve got a healer patching the elf up now.”

“There are plenty of visitors from every ilk that come to Skyhold wanting to seek out _the Inquisitor,”_ the title rolls off Felan’s tongue as if it tastes bitter.  “I don’t know if anyone’s informed you, Jim, but I had a very, _very_ long day yesterday, and I’d like to rest before we leave for the Western Approach tomorrow.  So, do you have any idea what the Void makes this unruly elf _so important_ that it warrants rousing us so damned early?  Surely Cullen can handle it, no?”

Dorian can practically feel his amatus’s annoyed gaze burning into the man before them.

“I… I apologise, Your Worship, but… it seemed very troublesome to the commander.  I-I don’t fully know his reasons, we were only told to fetch you and well, Aldin went to go send word to Sister Nightingale, too.  Mayhaps it won’t take long and you uh… you can continue…”

Now it’s Dorian’s turn to give the runner an annoyed look, despite there being no interruption of anything other than _sleep_ and lazing about.  He wonders how angry Josephine would be if he were to set this man’s arse alight to hasten his departure from his door.

“Right, ah… Shall I tell Commander Rutherford you’re on your way, then?”

Felan sighs.  “Yes, fine… Now _leave us.”_

And so, the plain and uninteresting man, with his plain and uninteresting name, hurries off before Dorian can feel the threatening scorch of flames at his fingertips.

 

Beyond minor grumbling about having to wear his clothing from the day prior, Felan is oddly calm, and very much himself - which actually worries Dorian.  He grabs hold of Felan’s arm, gently tugging him to a stop as they make their way through Skyhold.

“Amatus, are you… alright?”

Felan looks at him, a smile barely curving his full mouth.  “Remember when I went to find you in the gardens to see if _you_ were alright after being ambushed by your father?”

“Of course, why?”

“Do you remember what I did?”

Dorian can recall _many_ things they’d both done the night that initiated their relationship, but he chooses his words tactfully.  “You told me to stop feeling sorry for myself in so many words because… I was worth more than what my parents saw.  But Fae, you should know you’re worth something. And this is different… so very different. I didn’t _lose_ anyone like you have.  Not in the same way.”

“What else did I do?”

Sifting through the images that flash in his mind, Dorian plucks another, then another out from the current of recollection.  “You told me we don’t have to be alone… and, you kissed me.”

“Exactly,” Felan says as if his point is clear as day.

The vagueness of that response almost irritates Dorian, but then something slides into place.   _He came to me last night not because he was seeking some sort of validation, but because he_ didn’t _want to be alone, after all… He could have sought out anyone else’s shoulder to cry on.  But he came back to_ me. _Am I to be all he has now?_

The weight of that thought is terrifyingly heavy, but another clashes with it:  the realisation that he’d gladly carry it and perhaps any other weight for Felan… or at the very least, share it.  Even if he never found a way to rid them of this bonded-curse he’d inadvertently set upon them, Dorian would solely take that secret burden onto his shoulders for the rest of their lives, too.

Dorian faces him, and takes his left hand.  Felan’s brows furrow a bit at the gesture as Dorian brings his palm up to his mouth and places a kiss against the virescent-scarred flesh.  His lips remain just long enough to feel the Anchor thrum against his mouth. He pulls away slowly, still holding Felan’s marked hand in his.  With the other, Dorian cups the back of Felan’s head and kisses him - and with this, he doesn’t mind lingering.

Their lips brush, never losing true contact in between soft pecks, and Dorian pulls Felan’s body close, uncaring for once of anyone that may pass them by through the halls.  Felan nuzzles their noses together before one more kiss, then moves forward to press the side of his face against Dorian’s with a shaky exhale.

“I'm here, Felan,”  Dorian reminds him and runs his fingers through the silvery mess of his overgrown hair.

A weight of Felan’s own seems to drift away from the tense line of his body and he whispers, “That's all I ever need.”

Dorian hugs him closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his head.  “You _won't_ be alone.  So long as you'll have me, I'm not going anywhere, amatus.”

“Me neither.”

With a surge of hope in his heart, Dorian asks him softly, “Promise?”

Felan nods against the high, velvety collar of Dorian’s robes, and a warm, shuddering whimper ghosts across his neck as Felan then says,   _“...Ar lath ma, vhenan.”_

It’s the only answer to a promise like this that Dorian needs, and he can connect the dots easily as to the phrase just whispered to him from the bit of Elvhen he knows.  He wonders if perhaps Felan decided to forgo Common for his sake. It still means the same, and Dorian wishes he could convey as much in any language. _Coward._

They stand there for a moment in their embrace until Felan pulls away, but not before Dorian dances his fingers down his arm to grasp Fae’s unmarked hand tight.

He won't let go.

//

Heading through the heavy door to the cells, Felan is ever grateful they’d collectively decided it wise to repair at least part of the sprawling stone dungeon beneath the castle.  They hadn’t many brigands and the like to hold prisoner here so far, thank the Creators, but Felan still isn't comfortable with the idea of holding people of any sort in cells that teeter on precarious, broken ledges.  

The scaffolding is supposedly strong, according to the workers who’d built and _rebuilt_ it all, and Felan tries to ignore the whine of creaking wood when a strong gust of mountain air catches inside the cavern - there was nothing anyone could do about the giant, gaping hole in the side of the castle, however.  Thick mortar filled and reinforced other areas, but rebuilding the other half of the crumbling prison was out of the question, lest there be a dangerous collapse or something of that nature.

Torches burn black, shadowy streaks upon the stones between each cell, and despite the openness of the place, it still somehow manages to reek of nothing but damp stone, stale air, and chamber pots in need of dumping.  

At the far end of the room, Cassandra leans against the wall, conversing with Cullen in between glances back at the cell behind her.  From afar, Felan takes note of Cullen’s bandaged sword arm that is naked of its glove and vambrace. Leliana just sits calmly at a small desk near the entrance.

She stands to greet Felan and Dorian.  “Inquisitor,” she starts, voice ever bright. “Have you been briefed by one of our runners?”

“I have.  Who is this elf that attacked?  And better yet, _why_ did he attack?”

“We were hoping you could shed light on that for us, actually.  He will not give his name nor any details, only that he must speak with _you…_ and that you will know him.  He has, however, admitted to having no quarrel with the Inquisition, itself.  Though… he hasn’t readily apologised for the scene he caused this morning, either.  And as you’ll soon witness, Inquisitor, it seems there is no love lost between our commander and this elf.”  A small, mischievous smile graces her lips as she turns to look over in Cullen’s direction.

Confusion sets in along with curiosity, and Felan looks around Leliana towards the cell nearest Cassandra and Cullen.  “And he’s there?” Felan gestures towards the cell, still unable to see inside the small, dark stone room from this distance.  Hands clasped in front of her, Leliana nods and moves aside to fall in step with Felan and Dorian as they walk on.

But Felan stops in his tracks when the sound of a groaned words reaches him.  

_“Da fenlin…?”_

No.   _No._ It can't possibly...

His heart, like a wardrum, beats loudly, sending his pulse racing into a sporadic hum in his twitching ears.  He disentangles his fingers from the vice-like grip he had on Dorian’s hand and quickly jogs towards the cell door.

“Wh- Fae?” Dorian calls after him, voice almost echoing, but the blood coursing through Felan’s veins drowns everything out to dull ambient noise.

“Aridhel?!”  Felan chokes out, nearly dropping to his knees as he skids to a stop, gripping the cold bars of the door, jarring it.

 _White hair, caramel skin._ Surely he is seeing a spectre.  Or he's going mad, placing faces on strangers again.   _Emerald eyes_ catch the torchlight and glow back at him as the elf huddled in the darkened corner rises from his cot.

Felan rattles the door again.  “Open this door! Someone! _Now!  Please!!”_

Cassandra approaches behind him, the key ring jingling in her hands as she quickly unlocks the door.

Felan takes a few, ponderous steps backwards, half-mindful of the rickety bannister in place to prevent a fatal plummet.  He tries to catch his breath, but it's nearly knocked from him as Aridhel rushes him, pulling him forward into his arms. He is vaguely aware of Cullen having drawn his blade behind them.

The embrace is almost suffocating.  When Aridhel releases him his eyes look up into Felan’s imploringly.   _It really is you, you're alive.  How?_ Felan wants to sob, but the words refuse to leave his mouth.

Aridhel runs a finger along Felan’s cheek, down the dark red vallaslin that slants towards his mouth, then along the line they both have that divides their bottom lip.  Felan could swear Aridhel might kiss him, as the touch is an all too painfully familiar precursor to such things, but instead he murmurs thanks to their shared god, June, for his strength and shoves Felan away violently.

Elvhen curses gush from Aridhel’s seething mouth, and Cassandra grabs Felan’s arm, dragging him away.  He looks passed Aridhel to Dorian, who appears as bewildered as he imagines he does, himself. Then he notices the fire that licks small spirals around the fingers of Dorian's right hand like glowing molten jewelry.

Cullen moves to push Aridhel back against the wall, blade at the ready.   _“Calm yourself!”_

“Were I still armed, I'd make sure you'd never raise a sword again, _shemlen!”_ Aridhel spits out, eyes filled with hatred.

“You know this elf then, Inquisitor?!” Cassandra asks, surprised.  She slowly lets go of her grip on him.

“I… I do.  He's… he was…”

“Oh, you can't even _say it,_ can you?   _Who am I_ to you anymore, Felan?!”  

Cullen presses his hand into Aridhel’s chest a little harder and inches the point of his sword a bit closer to his throat.

Dorian makes the mistake of coming to Felan’s side - all soft, reassuring touches with a hand caressing his jaw, gently trying to turn Felan’s gaze to him instead.  He likely thinks Felan is on the verge of another breakdown, he can even feel Leliana’s presence hovering at the edge of his vision, but Felan feels devoid of any emotion in this moment.  It feels like he's drifting listless, in a dream, watching outside himself.

Staring into Dorian's stormy eyes, Felan wishes he could explain with one word.

“He is Master Aridhel of… my clan.”  The simplification is cold and metallic upon his tongue.

 _“Your clan…”_ Aridhel scoffs and laughs bitterly.  “You have not been a part of us for a long time, and you _know it._ You sit here in your _fortress_ with your human protectors, leading _them_ as if these _quick_ are more worthy than we were when _we_ needed your guidance!  And now…” Aridhel sets his disdain on Dorian. “now it appears you invite them into your bed as well, _flat-ear!?!”_

Cullen growls his own mirror of Aridhel’s earlier threat, “Shut your bleeding mouth, elf, before _I_ make sure you never speak another vile thing!”

“Commander!” Cassandra reprimands.

“Put him back in the cell,” Leliana adds, coldly.

Dorian's fingers dig into Felan’s side.   _Vhenan, please don't say anything.  Please,_ Felan wishes silently and places his own hand on Dorian's.  The Anchor sings painfully to the tune of Dorian's anger pouring through the faint buzz of magic hovering over his skin.  It feels reminiscent of the beginnings of one of his protective barriers.

Aridhel narrows his eyes up at Cullen again. “Hit a nerve, have I, shem?  Does he play your little rabbit-whore too, while-" Aridhel practically yelps as Cullen grabs him by his shirtfront and shoves him back in the cell, sending him sprawling on the uneven stone floor.  He sheaths his sword then reaches out to Cassandra for the keys to lock Aridhel away again.

Something in Felan finally gives, finally snaps.  “I would not even _be here_ if it weren't for _you,_ Ari!!” he screams and attempts to stalk towards the cell, but Dorian’s hold reels him in.  “If you had just let me be! If you and Deshanna hadn't asked me to be your fucking spy… But you wouldn't leave me alone!”  He takes no small pleasure in watching Aridhel struggle to his feet again.

Aridhel yells back from behind his bars, “You act like I _begged_ it of you! You still had a _choice!”_

“You didn't have to _beg me,_ Aridhel… dirtying your knees in front of me meant practically the same thing.  But continue on about what a _whore I am_ for the Inquisition,” Felan mutters in disgust.

As Dorian's grip at the side of his waist slackens, Felan storms away through the dungeon halls and into the awaiting daylight without a single glance back.

Stepping out from the shade of the castle, he closes his eyes to the warmth of the sun.  The cool grass beneath his feet is grounding and calming, so he takes one deep breath in and lets it out slow through his nose.  Felan rolls his shoulders back, straightening his spine when he hears Dorian barge outside after him.

“Care to explain?”  Dorian’s voice holds an undercurrent of anger the man is clearly trying to prevent from getting the best of him.  Felan walks away, unsure of exactly _how_ to explain.  He doesn’t even know how Aridhel is here!  But Dorian, ever stubborn, pursues him. “No, you aren’t running away from me again, Fae.”

Felan slows to a halt.  “Why?” he asks tiredly. “You always get to run from what’s too hard…”  Dorian grabs him and turns Felan to face him.

_“You promised.”_

Just like that, Felan is made malleable with the combination of Dorian’s beseeching eyes and the quiet of his usually loud, rich accent.  “I’m sorry, vhenan… I know… you’re right.”

“I do try to be.” Dorian attempts to give him a smile, but Felan can tell it’s a struggle, considering the situation.

“I’ll… try my best to explain what I can, but not here.  Do me a favour and tell the others I’ll be back, but you and I must talk.  No… don’t tell them that. Um, just tell them I _will_ be back soon enough, and then meet me on the first floor of the tavern.”

Dorian pulls him in for a brief kiss.   _“I trust you,_ amatus.  I’ll tell them you needed some air, time to think, then I’ll join you momentarily.”  The endearment that Dorian has been giving a little more freely does quite a bit to boost Felan’s mood.

 

Felan sits at his chosen table, twirling the stem of his goblet between his thumb and index finger, waiting for Dorian.  He takes a sip of the wine, then places it back down on the table with a start, as Cole is suddenly seated across from him without warning.

“It’s deep.  Like a river valley, it carves for many miles.”

“What is, Cole?”

“Your hurt.  But,” The boy looks up at Felan from beneath the wide brim of his hat, cool blue eyes peeking through straggly blond hair.  “today it’s less than last night. Different. Quieter. Not as deep. _I_ helped, and then _Dorian helped.”_ A look of joy flits across his pale face briefly, victorious.

Felan sighs.  He doesn’t remember Cole visiting him last night, and though he’d downed quite a bit of wine, it wasn’t enough to knock him on his arse like that.  This could only mean… “So that was you, then? _You_ made me go to Dorian’s room last night?”

“You lied when you had him leave.  You’re afraid, but he makes it all go away. _I don’t_ _understand_ why you both fight it… !  Old walls to climb, cracks in the stone,” he speaks more quickly.  “But yours are new. Afraid to fail, afraid to taste disappointment on someone else's lips.  The wine tastes sweeter when you're bitter.”

Well, Felan certainly hadn't come here to have his inner fears and inner demons laid out for him like this, but Cole continues nattering on with his cryptic musings.  “The demons _out there_ are easier for you to put to rest.  Blade, blood, battle. The only hurt is in your hand when you face them.  Faces in dreams, but not theirs. The one that shares your ink and pain is here to haunt you.”

After downing the rest of his wine, Felan pours a splash more, then makes a vague gesture towards Cole, as he's momentarily at a loss for words.  “Sometimes… sometimes people let themselves hurt because it’s better that way - _safer._ So just, stop… please stop reading my thoughts, Cole.  I don't want to hear what I already know right now.” And Felan knows the spirit-boy means well, but… he isn't ready.  As it is, he's having difficulty steeling himself for the conversation he and Dorian are about to have. And _that’s_ when Dorian saunters up the stairs and towards the table.

He takes a seat beside Felan and eyes Cole, then the bottle of wine and the extra glass Felan had brought up for him.  “Hm, I wasn’t aware we’d need a _mediator._ And, _wine_ apparently.”

“How is hurting better?  How can I make it hurt less when you won’t listen?  I-I’ve made it harder, haven’t I?” Cole stands abruptly, a sorrowful look upon his face like a kicked dog.  Felan holds a hand out to him, trying to stop him. Eyes from a few nearby tavern patrons fall on their table, suspicious.  

Felan knows Cole’s first instinct when he thinks he’s made a mistake is to make the person or people he’s helping forget so he can try anew, but maybe Felan shouldn’t forget this.

“Don’t make me forget, Cole.  It’s fine, you didn’t make anything worse,” Felan reassures him quietly. “And… _thank you.”_

Cole visibly calms.  “May I help your friend?  His pain is _very_ loud.  I should have told you he was coming.  But you were happy.”

From his peripheral, Felan catches Dorian’s small, questioning head tilt.

“I don’t know that he’ll want it, honestly.  I cannot speak for anything he wants anymore, but you may try if he lets you.”  Finding out the reason behind Aridhel’s outrage probably wouldn’t be difficult - Felan can think of more than a few on his own if he imagines himself in Ari’s position; many reasons that could be reproach to Felan’s past and present inadequacies.  Locked in a cell as he is, Aridhel’s list for why he’s so passionately angry is probably growing as they speak.

Cole turns away from Felan and Dorian as if he means to leave, but instead walks around the table and stands behind their chairs, looking them both over curiously from beneath his messy fringe of hair.  Felan cocks his scarred brow up at him.

“An anchor holds you in place and makes you more - brighter, sparking, glowing, but to him you were always so much more than a mark.  And then he saw even more when the candles burned low. A kiss upon his chest, over his heart, making _my_ mark.   _Amatus._  Oh.  Oh! I-I shouldn’t have said _that!_  You like when Dorian blushes, though.”  Felan rests his forehead against Dorian’s shoulder and groans.  Looking directly at Dorian now, Cole tells him, “He won’t leave like the others.  You were right to hope.” The spirit blinks out of sight, leaving not a trace that he was ever even there, besides the flustered, embarrassed heat in both Felan and Dorian’s faces as evidence.

The hushed silence left in Cole’s wake grabs their attention, and Dorian scowls at the patrons who’ve set their own attentions on the couple.

“Yes, yes, go on.  Stare. We could disrobe if you'd like - _really_ give you all something worth ogling,” Dorian lectures their audience.  Felan stands and grabs Dorian by the hand.

“Come on, let’s go up there.”  Felan nods towards the stairs to the second floor of the tavern used mainly for storage and passage into the establishment from the battlements.  He hopes Cole will keep away from his usual haunt for at least a little while so he and Dorian can talk more privately up there.

Dorian grabs the bottle of wine before being dragged off.  “Not without this. You know… _precautions.”_ He smiles, but it comes across as more of a grimace.

Thankfully, Cole is still nowhere to be seen, and Felan wonders if he’s really gone off to try “helping” Aridhel or not; and if so, how far he’s going to get with that.

They lean against a wall, hidden mostly in shadow.  Dorian takes a short swig from the wine bottle. “Alright then.  Let’s have it.”

Felan inhales until it feels like his lungs might burst; his right lung briefly reminding him of its collapse after Corypheus’s attack.  

“Aridhel and I…” The words come out on a rush of air.  Felan can’t seem to be able to complete that sentence in front of Dorian.  He feels like he’s on a cliff edge, only needing the weakest breeze to blow him over.

“Were lovers,” Dorian finishes for him.  Felan wishes he’d assumed _wrong_ if only to delay this.

Dorian’s face is unreadable, but Felan must tell him the whole truth.  If this is going to work between them, he owes Dorian honesty, no matter how brutal his truths might be.

“Yes.  Unfortunately, there’s more to it, though.  We were… I don’t know how much you know of Dalish culture, but we were… there’s a handfasting ritual, and…”

“For fuck’s sake, Fae!  Are you telling me you’re _married_ to that madman?!” Dorian hisses, eyes wide in hurt and horror.  It’s like a knife to Felan’s heart.

“No!  We didn’t go through with it!  I… _left_ before that.  But, we were going to.  I think Ari wanted it more than I did, truthfully.”  

“Is that why you left your clan, then?  Besides… well…” Dorian takes another swig from the bottle.

“I truly did leave for the reasons I told you-”

“A lie of omission, then,” Dorian interrupts.

“Dor, _vhenan,_ telling you about Aridhel and I would have been pointless then!  It’s been over _two years!_ I left that life behind me!  And that included him!”

Dorian asks him flatly, “How long were you together?”

Felan squares his shoulders and lifts his chin proudly, then snatches the wine bottle from Dorian’s grasp, setting it on the floor behind him.  In the midst of Dorian’s disbelief of the action, Felan pushes him against the wall with his own body and cups the sides of his face. “No more questions.  I’m going to tell you the truth, right now, Dorian. And you aren’t going to like it, but if you can’t live with the shadows that trail me, then you can’t live with _me,_ because it’s who I am!”

Dorian is near panting from being manhandled unexpectedly.  “Tell me then, Fae.”

Sliding his hands to rest on either side of Dorian’s neck, Felan continues, “We grew up together from the time Ari was adopted into my clan when I was two summers old, and he seven.  Besides my older sister, he was - _was -_ my closest friend.  I wanted to be like him.  Just as brave, just as strong.   _He_ is the fucking reason I have this vallaslin…”  Felan makes a circular gesture around his face and Dorian’s brows furrow.

“The friend you told me about before, who helped you choose your tattoos.  It was _him?”_

“Yes.  That’s why ours are so similar.  It made me feel closer to him. I couldn’t make anyone as proud as I could Ari.  And then I knew I loved him. I was so young and blinded by it, blinded by my idolisation of him.  But perhaps, deep down, I knew I could never be half the man he was. Regardless, my parents were elated because they loved him dearly.  I think he was the son my father had always wanted. And five years on, after my father’s death, my want to be a part of everything my clan stood for died too.  

“Ari hated humans after that attack, and he hated them _more_ for what he said they turned me into.  Besides my belief that I was no leader for them, I always wanted more than the life I was given, _you_ know that. But Aridhel wanted no parts in it and tried to get me to stay.  He wanted us to marry, yes. I just wanted him to come with me, to experience a life beyond the darkness of that hate he always carried with him.  But then I made him hate me too.”

Dorian is rendered speechless for several agonising moments, eyes downcast towards the floor.

“You loved him?”

Felan is quickly feeling as though his truths are even too much for him to confess.

“I didn’t think I could ever love or even want to know love again after him, Dorian.  Then I met some cocky Tevinter mage who got me blasted alongside him into a nightmarish, potential-future… and he showed me just how fucking _wrong_ I was.”

Dorian smiles - _a genuine smile -_ at that.  “I hear this mage was also quite charming and heroic.  Saved you even! Imagine that...” For a reason Felan cannot discern, that smile fades.

“The most charming, heroic, handsome pain in my arse I’ve ever known.”  Leaning up on his toes, Felan is relieved when Dorian cranes his neck to kiss him.  “But Dorian, he is still all that is left of my clan… and I have to know what happened to them.   _Hear it from him._ I need you to understand that I cannot turn him away.  But I also need and hope you’ll understand even more, that my heart beats for him no longer.”

Sighing, Dorian tips his head back to lean against the wall.  “While I don’t particularly _like_ the idea - loathe it, really - of being surrounded by your ex-lovers.  I want you happy, Fae. And if this will bring you closure of any sort… so be it.  I trust you, amatus.”

Ex-lovers? _Lovers??_ The synapses in Felan’s brain feel like they’re firing off too quickly.  Perhaps Dorian had merely misspoken. Yes, that had to be it. “Wait, ex- _lovers,_ Dorian?”

He winces.  “Right. Damn my tongue!”

“I rather like your tongue,” Felan purrs.

“I’m glad to hear it, but… Felan, the way Cullen makes calf-eyes at you makes him terribly obvious at the best of times.  There were also… _rumours_ around the time I suspect you two were… well, whatever it is you _were.”_

“Dorian, I-  Fuck… I’m sorry, I should have told you, but… _Fenedhis lasa!”_ Felan tries to turn away from Dorian in frustration and embarrassment, but Dorian catches him by the waist.

“I don’t _care._ Well, not really.   _He’d best soon get over it,_ but what’s past is past.  You and I, this is what’s present.  And Maker, you’ve turned me into a right _sap,_ haven’t you?  Utterly disgusting!  Shameful!”

Felan laughs and turns in Dorian’s arms to press his body against the wall once more.  “I’ll further ruin you yet. You really don’t care though, truthfully?”

“Truthfully, I’d never suspected our dear _commander,_ but I suppose I should be used to the secrecy of one’s tastes thanks to my _outstanding_ Tevinter upbringing.”  

“Well, he ah… isn't exactly like you and I.  He'd told me of the few lovers he's had in the past, most were women.  It isn’t like those in the Order had much time to… explore other… things.  I um, wasn't even fully aware of his… proclivities towards… until uh...” Felan bites his tongue before he reveals too much to his current lover.  No need to dredge up _every_ detail of his past romantic ventures.  Especially not the details of how he’d flirted near-mercilessly with Cullen until the walls between them toppled to his immense surprise.  He’d only just met Dorian then. Hm.

Fate is a strange and sometimes cruel thing; and at other times, wonderful, he muses.

Dorian gives Felan a sidelong glance that turns into amused suspicion.  “Yes well, you certainly weaseled that out of him in time, didn't you?”

“Oh shut it, you.  You knew, or at least had an idea then, and yet you treated us no differently.”

“Despite being greener than the Breach with envy, I still had common decency, you know!  Besides, you were my closest friends, and it's shocking, I know, but there _are_ times I can actually swallow my pride in the face of two people who deserve happiness.  Luckily, I'm also known to be patient on occasion. I'd say my patience more than paid off in the end.”  Dorian brings Felan closer, making their bodies more flush and grinds their hips together just enough to pull a quiet moan from Felan.

“I am more than thankful you're _mine_ now, Fae.”

They kiss slow at first, but it quickly becomes more obscene than should be expected considering the nature of the conversation they'd just had.  Felan can't help dragging his body tight up against Dorian’s to feel the stiff slide of their trapped arousals. He pulls away from Dorian to teasingly lick at his top lip, daring him to chase his mouth.   _“Always yours, and always mine,”_ he whispers before recapturing Dorian's mouth for his own.

“Venhedis Felan, if I didn't promise to bring you back down to the cells, I'd ask you to show me _just how much_ I'm yours and have you fuck me right here.”

Pulling away with a little laugh, Felan relaxes back down onto the heels of his feet.  “I’m sure there will be a time for that later. In _our_ room, I’d hope.”  That specification seems to bring Dorian’s rare, genuine smile to the forefront again.

“Yes, I have no qualms with that.  Though its appointments _are_ a bit austere, if not _quaint,_ I do so enjoy the company kept within.  Now _that_ is something remark upon!”  Felan smiles wickedly and begins to move away.  His fingers trail down Dorian’s arm to find his hand and bring him away from the wall with him, but Dorian stops him short, pulling him back a little.  “Felan, I must apologise for my selfish cowardice, and my fears, though I’m sure you know they are warranted. You have laid bare your soul for more than just me on numerous occasions, and I’ve given you nothing comparable in return, save for one moment of aggravated weakness in front of my _loving father.”_ Dorian frowns, looking away.

“Is this where you try to convince me I deserve better again?”  Felan tugs on Dorian’s hand in an attempt to get the man to look at him.

“No, this is me acknowledging that you don’t deserve any _backbiting_ from people who stick their powdered noses where they don’t belong just as easily as they breathe.  They don’t appreciate you as they should. They’d do well to recognise we’d all be damned if it weren't for you and your wavy hand bit.  But I’m getting ahead of myself… You’ve shown remarkable patience with them, and with _me._ You… you _love me_ so freely, yet I shy away from _words_ like it’s Maker forsaken blood magic!”  Dorian’s voice loses its steadiness and his shoulders heave with irritated breaths.  He finally meets Felan’s eyes as if he’s searching for disappointment in answer there.

It pains Felan that Dorian can’t yet verbally return those important endearments, yes.  But what matters more is that Felan never felt doubt of any kind in Dorian’s feelings for him since they’d started this.  Felan’s fall was a dangerous, quick thing and it makes sense that someone as sure-footed as Dorian wouldn’t take the plunge without calculating the risks first.  Even still, if Dorian trusts him as much as he says, _well…_

Felan’s niggling want to have the question of _why_ pesters him like an itch below his skin now.  

He squeezes Dorian’s hand.  “But why is it so hard for you, Dor?”

Dorian makes a noise in the back of his throat that’s something between a scoff and a laugh.  His eyes leave Felan again as he brings his free hand up to fix the curl of his moustache in one of the few nervous gestures Felan can ever recall witnessing in his friend.

“Because what I feel is _real_ and real things can be taken away, broken, lost.   _Ruined._  And if I put a name to it - what this feeling is - then like a spell, that makes it more tangible than anything I’ve had the privilege of having as my own.”  His eyes are intense as he cups Felan’s jaw. “And I won’t have _this_ taken away from me, amatus.  I was made to think I could _never_ have this.”  Dorian pauses to let out a laugh that’s nearly self-deprecating.  “Oh, how I’d pay a king’s ransom to see the look on my parents’ faces now!”

Felan really, _really_ wishes he’d given Halward Pavus a bigger piece of his mind.  Or punched him. Yes, _that._

“I’ve certainly showed them, haven’t I?”  Dorian says more quietly. “I think Felix would be happy for us...  I _know_ he would, in fact.  He’d always told me to not give in, to keep fighting the good fight, as they say; to never lose hope.”

“Ir abelas, I wish I’d have gotten to know him, emma lath.”  For some reason, words in Trade tongue don’t seem like enough right now.

“So do I, even if he’d surely gag at what a saccharine pair we make.  You know, a long time ago, I used to wear my heart on my sleeve. Felix sometimes made fun of me for it, even.  All this bluff and bluster is somewhat new for me. I know it may shock you, but… I was a dreadful hopeless romantic at heart when I was younger.  And then I was shown why _I_ could never love so freely.  Not that I wasn’t shown the consequences over and over again later in life as well, but I digress.

“I should… tell you of something.  You shouldn’t be the only one to bare a bleeding heart between us.  It might actually explain why I’m so Maker-damned flighty with all this… relationship and syrupy sweet-nothings business.”

Felan feels a nervous clench in his chest; his abs unconsciously tightening against the uncomfortable, anxious flutter in his stomach.

“Tell me what, exactly?  You’re not really inspiring confidence in me right now, I’m afraid.”

“There aren’t many who know, and I intend to keep it that way…”  Dorian starts and leans down to grab for the forgotten bottle of wine, drinking deeply of it when the glass touches his lips.  “I suppose I’m day-drinking again, wonderful. Anyway… Before Alexius took me in, ‘rescued me,’ whatever you deem fit to call it, I met frequently with a man - _a former elven slave_ to be exact - at a brothel in the slums of a small city outside of Carastes.  There, no one would _dare_ bat an eyelash at who you were, nor who you were sharing a bed with, so long as you had coin to spare and didn’t cause a fuss.  It became a sanctuary of sorts for us, as awful as I have no doubt that sounds. You have demons you dog that trail you like ominous shadows, Fae.  So do I. But _kaffas…”_

Dorian goes silent for a moment, pressing his lips together.

A sad, dejected laugh escapes him before continuing.  “Meeting Velius Rilienus taught me that if you _hoped for love,_ never mind acted on it, you’d lay the snares for your own Maker-damned demise before you had time to realise how you even felt.  I can’t bare to lose you the way I lost him.”


	12. Forbearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"They share the heat, multiplied and divided  
>  Above the reef, some collided to make a boy  
> The mirror drifts to the floor of the sea  
> He follows, but loses reflection_
> 
> _He thought, "Oh, what do I do to myself?"_
> 
> _He hesitates when invited to stay  
>  I hear the words, but let the current pull me away  
> The mirror drifts to the floor of the sea  
> I follow, but lose the reflection_
> 
> _Naive, naive..."_
> 
> -Endless Hallway, _"Remora"_

  
  
  
  
  
  


Dorian stares forward, letting the smooth glass of the wine bottle slip through his fingers as Felan takes it from him without a word.

Felan just waits.  Dorian knows he does.  Waits for him to speak his explanation in his own time.  Sometimes he loathes Felan’s impatience with him, wanting to be the  _ exception  _ to that pointed restlessness, but right now he’d love it if Felan pushed him.  Dorian wants nothing more than to get this over with. Shut the door on his past and lock it up for good - maybe throw away the key this time, though.  Perhaps melt it down into a shiny memento to adorn himself with as a reminder to never again go back there.

The dull sound of the bottle being set on the splintery floor beneath their feet snaps Dorian out of his numb stupor.

“He ah… Rilienus was a former slave, as I said, but he was not  _ free.   _ I was amazed at the lack of unkind words for the master he’d given the slip to.  Apparently, he was not a cruel man to his slaves. I wasn’t sure why he’d run, considering… but Rilienus wanted his own life.”

_ “Of course he did,”  _ Felan cuts in, that familiar impatience weighing down his words slightly.

Dorian sighs and looks up at him.  “He changed his name - something much more…  _ Tevinter.   _ I couldn’t understand how whoring oneself out at a brothel was any sort of freedom, but he was more than short on coin, and the place served him anonymity.  Rilienus claimed his master knew where he was, but never came for him. Tarnished goods and all that, perhaps.

“There was much we didn’t know of each other, and I fell for the enigma of that, I think.  He was the epitome of courage to my younger, naive self and it only served to fuel my rebellious spirit.  Before long, I thought…” Dorian waves the thought away with a hand until Felan catches it in his own. He squeezes Dorian’s fingers then places them upon his hip, silently permitting Dorian this touch.  He searches Felan’s eyes, confused for a moment before he moves forward into Dorian’s space, slowly hugging him. 

The confusion outweighs the solace the embrace brings Dorian.  Why is Fae consoling  _ him?   _ He should be angry!  Shouldn’t he? Jealous, at the very least!  Dorian’s hand creeps from Felan’s hip to the small of his back, bringing him closer.

“Tell me, vhenan.”  The words are a reassuring nudge in their quiet hush, as is the way Felan rests the side of his head against Dorian’s shoulder.  He does not deserve this man, truly.

“I thought I could rewrite my own life, maybe.” Dorian continues, but not with what he’d originally meant to say.  Now is not the time. “That I, too could become someone else and run away from my gilded cage. I got lost in him, lost in the idea like a fool.  I wanted very much to take him away from that blighted place so he didn’t have to  _ touch _ another soul for coin or live in fear, because whether he’d admit as much, I know he  _ hated _ it.” Dorian burrows his nose into Felan’s hair, using the gesture as some way to ground them both - reminding Fae that though he speaks of another, his heart is with him.

“I spent days planning.  I went to that dreadful place, ready to whisk him away like some damned knight in shining armour…” His breath comes in slow, shaky quakes.  “He… he wasn’t there. Some fucking magister that saw Rilienus’s master as a threat recognised him from parties and sought to take Rilienus as  _ his own _ slave to flaunt.  Word is Velius put up a good fight… took out one of the magister's lackeys.” Pride, though temporary, swells in Dorian’s chest at the memory.  “Something he paid dearly for, of course…”

Felan raises his head from Dorian’s shoulder, brows pinched.  “Did you know the magister who took him?”

Dorian swallows down the lump formed thick in his throat and laughs.  “He didn’t take him, amatus, no…” he says quietly. “I spent many nights thereafter in that brothel, drinking myself stupid wondering if he’d have been better off just  _ staying  _ with his former master.  If it wasn’t so bad, if he hadn’t run away… He may not have been free, but he would have been  _ alive.   _ I wondered if things would have been better if I’d have just found the bravery to ask him to run away with me sooner.  Maybe he wouldn’t have even agreed to come with me, but at least I’d have  _ tried. _  You don’t want me worrying over you, yes?  But how can I not when Rilienus asked the same thing of me?”

Slender fingers rake through his hair at the sides and he closes his eyes at the touch.  “Dorian,” Felan starts. “I made a promise to someone once, that I’d always come back. And I’m making that promise to you, as well.  I’ll always come back to  _ you,  _ no matter what.”

_ If only he knew,  _ Dorian thinks.  It’s his own fault Felan can’t hold true to that promise.

He presses his forehead to Fae’s.  “I promise to follow wherever you lead, no matter the cost.”

That is at least, a promise Dorian can keep, nevermind the morbid undercurrent flowing through the words only he can feel at this moment.

  
  


//

Making their way from the tavern, Felan and Dorian are greeted by a fidgety Cullen.  He looks more worn than ever, with greying dark circles forming beneath his eyes. 

After their conversation in the tavern, this somehow feels painfully awkward now that Felan knows Dorian was relatively aware of his previous relationship with the commander.

“Cullen,” he greets curtly.

“Inquisitor, the… your…” Cullen plays with the hair curling at the nape of his neck and blushes faintly.  “I’m afraid I don’t know how to refer to him. ‘The prisoner’ seems a bit harsh now.”

Felan quirks a brow at him.  He feels Dorian squeeze his hand.  “Master Aridhel is fine.”

“Yes, well… I uh, don’t think he wants to be called that any longer.”  Cullen’s hands go to the pommel of his sword as he attempts to stand straighter.

“Is that so?”  Felan can’t say he’s terribly surprised that Aridhel would want to do away with the title, he’d been uncomfortable with it the moment Felan had passed it over to him.  Any other time, he’d blame his clan for putting too much weight on the duty of clan masters, but… 

“He wants to speak with you, Inquisitor.”  Cullen disrupts his thoughts.

Turning to Dorian, Felan gives him a wan smile.  “I should probably do this on my own.”

“No, I understand.  Come find me after.”

Felan hopes Dorian means his tower, and begins to ask him, but Dorian beats him to the punch with a warm smile and says, “Yes, Fae.  I’ll see you soon, hm?” Another squeeze to his hand and Dorian saunters off, calm and cool.

He wants to follow him, avoid all of this; the reality of yet another loss in his life that leaves his hands slick and bloodied and his shoulders aching with the heavy guilt it all leaves behind for him yet again.

Cullen leads him to the door to the jail, the cold air wafting up at them as he opens the heavy door.  “I can send a guard down with you, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary, honestly.  The bars are enough, I’m sure.” Felan gives Cullen a sidelong glance.  There’s something off about him. Though he senses Cullen might be suffering from one of his migraines (if the pained squint in his eyes is anything to go by), that isn’t it.  He just seems  _ uncomfortable.   _ “Cullen, is everything alright?”

Cullen steps closer and says loud enough for just the two of them to hear, though no one else is nearby, “Did you send Cole down to the cells?”

Felan’s eyebrows raise.  So Cole  _ had  _ gone down to see Ari afterall.  Hm.

“He wanted to visit Aridhel.  I’m sure you can assume why. Is he down there now?”  The thought makes Felan a bit more nervous.

Cullen hesitates before answering.  “Ah, no. No, he’s left, actually. I uh, I need to speak to a runner about requisitions… if you’re sure you’ll be alright?”

The man looks as if he wants to flee, so Felan doesn’t question the uneasy air about him any further.  “I can handle things from here, Cullen.”

Cullen dips his head. “With your leave, Felan.”

  
  


For having a giant hole make up one half of the jail, the place always feels eerily quiet.  It’s as if the mountains swallow up all the dread and guilt down here as it’s spat out the side of the castle.  Felan makes his way to Aridhel’s cell, keeping his eyes forward so as not to let himself catch the attention of other lowly brigands he passes by.  He ignores the angry mutterings curling around his title.

Aridhel is seated on the ground, looking morose as ever with his forehead resting against a bent knee, the other outstretched before him.  He lifts his head at Felan’s approach and leans back against the wall. 

Felan stops in front of the bars.  “Tell me what happened.”

“I want to stay.”  Aridhel looks up at him, broken.  Felan is taken aback by his words and the sincerity of them.

He sits opposite Aridhel, leaning his shoulder against the cold bars.  Checking Ari’s face for a slip in his earnestness, Felan says, “Do you now?”  Ah, and there’s that magnificent scowl.

“The shemlen thought  _ us  _ the reason for their strange, mad illness.”

“Red lyrium in the wells,” Felan states.

Aridhel shrugs.  “I’d heard something about that in all the chaos, yes.  The Keeper and First were to help heal those afflicted, Deshanna and your Inquisition troops hoped for some sort of  _ exchange  _ in sheltering us, I believe… but, all it took were a few heavy accusations for things to disrupt into utter unrest in the streets.”  Aridhel’s face crumples suddenly, and Felan’s eyes burn at the sight. “I tried to protect them, Felan… Vie and I tried to shield your mother…” he croaks as a sob nearly overtakes him.  

Felan reaches through the bars as tears slowly roll down his own cheeks.  He’s relieved when Aridhel lets him take his hand. “I know you did, da’mis,” he says quietly, rubbing his thumb over Ari’s knuckles.  His skin is icy, and Felan holds his hand tighter.

With a sniff, Aridhel lifts his head and his usual cold forbearance is back; emotion only evident in the wet trails he refuses to brush from his face.  “When the fighting poured out of the city, I remember being nearly dragged out because of my wounds.  _ I wouldn’t have it. _  I would have gladly died beside them.  I remember falling to my knees nearly in time with the man I’d just killed.  I thought Falon’din would let me join them, but  _ no… _ I suppose the blood loss was not nearly enough to send me on my way.  I don’t know how long I was out.” His voice is dull and hollow, anger blistering the edges ever so often.  “And then I decided to find you.”

Surely staying with the Inquisition soldiers would have made more sense?  How long  _ had  _ Aridhel been unconscious, as he says?  And wouldn’t the soldiers have found him?  Felan couldn’t understand it. “Why on your own, Ari?  Had our men left so soon after? We got word of… pyres, so I know they lingered.  Help me understand, please.”

Aridhel grimaces and pulls his hand from Felan’s.  He runs his fingers up into his hair where it’s mostly fallen loose of its leather tie.   _ “I don’t trust them, Felan.”   _

“What?  Why, what did they-”

“I just… I just  _ don’t!   _ Alright?  They did nothing to me!  Don’t ask…” he pauses, breathing heavily.  “Don't ask me again… just take my word and leave it at that.” Aridhel’s fingers curl into fists at either side of his head.  “You don’t know shemlen like I do,” he says impatiently.

Felan doesn’t dig, doesn’t prod him for more.  Aridhel had always had a leeriness for humans. After the murder of his father, Felan thought perhaps he understood it, but his own temporary loathing did not hold a candle to the strength and depth of Aridhel’s anathema.  For all the years upon years he’d known and loved Ari, there were still dark corners he was often turned away from.

He brings his knees up and slings his arms over them, leaning towards Aridhel again.  “I can talk to them about getting you out of here if you’re going to act civil.”

Aridhel scoffs and turns his head away.

“You may stay here, Ari.  I wouldn’t turn you away if you truly wish to stay.”

Looking back to Felan from the corner of his eye, Aridhel mumbles almost sarcastically, “No, you wouldn’t, would you?”  Felan ignores his attempt at goading him. Briefly he tries to remember what Aridhel’s smile looked like. He nearly frowns that he can’t quite recall it.  It changed his face, lit it up like nothing he’d ever seen, but he can’t fix the detailed picture in his mind any longer.

“I can’t promise you won’t get more than a few looks from people, though… considering the spectacle you made when you arrived.”

Aridhel smirks.  “Oh, I’m sure I would anyway, da fenlin.   _ I am an elf,”  _ he drawls out bitterly.

“These people don’t care about things such as that.  So long as you’re here to help and are on our side, it doesn’t matter.”

Sighing down at his hands in his lap with one eyebrow cocked skeptically, Aridhel tells him, “True enough, look at their  _ Inquisitor.   _ A runaway Dalish elf…”

“I… !” Now Ari’s brattiness is showing through and it grates on Felan’s nerves.  The pity that had been growing in his heart for him dissolves. Felan stops himself from getting angry and exhales through his nose, steeling himself before standing.  If Aridhel truly wanted to stay here, he needn’t also be fucking ungrateful. Not that Felan would throw him out, anyway. “Are you going to be  _ civil,  _ Aridhel?”

“I suppose.” Aridhel simply shrugs again, but it’s a clear feign.  _ “Yes.   _ But I want access to my weapon.”

Felan doesn’t think it a good idea just yet, but he also has no time to ruminate over the delicacy of that matter.  They leave for the Western Approach tomorrow, after all. Perhaps he could have Leliana keep watch over him and decide while they were gone.  He has to go see Harritt later and could ask him to clean and sharpen Aridhel’s claymore and keep it aside in the undercroft for the time being.

“I’ll think on that and speak to Leliana about doing so, and perhaps you'll get it back before my return from Orlais.  That’s all I can offer you for now. We’ll figure out rooming for you as soon as possible.” It always felt good putting his foot down with Ari, and now… now Aridhel has no power over him in their current positions.

“A spare tent will suit me fine.”

_ “Fine.   _ We will also decide where to put you to work.  I think pulling your weight around here in a productive way will put everyone at ease.”

Aridhel shoots him a wide-eyed glare, but Felan doesn’t back down.

“I have an important mission to set out for tomorrow.  You have any issues, you will see  _ Leliana  _ or seek out Ambassador Montilyet while I’m gone, understood?”

A runner nearly startles Felan from his glowering.  He carries with him a thick woven blanket. Felan turns to him with a questioning glance.

“For the prisoner, Your Worship.  I'll be back down with food and fresh water in a quarter of an hour.” He holds the blanket out to Felan and with a bow, takes his leave.  Felan offers it to Aridhel through the bars and receives a wry grin from him as he stands to grab the blanket.

“They’ll make a proper leader of you yet, it seems.”  Aridhel drapes the blanket around his shoulders and shuffles over to his cot, finally taking a seat there.  “And what of the shem who did this to me?” He gestures to his cut brow and blackening eye. “He is your commander, I understand?”

Felan rolls his eyes.  He  _ really  _ does not need this to be a source of contention between Ari and Cullen, especially when he can’t be here to play the reluctant mediator for them.  “Yes, he is. And Commander Rutherford was in his  _ right -  _ you attacked our men, Ari,  _ and  _ him.  Is this going to be a problem?”  He clasps his hands behind his back, standing straighter.  And he bloody feels like  _ Solas  _ right now… Mythal, ma halani…

“No…” Aridhel answers him solemnly.  Then in Elvhen he asks, “Will you please keep that spirit from me?”

_ “Elgar?  _  Ah, Cole?”  Felan smiles.  “Atish’an, Aridhel.  I’ll make sure of it.  If you don’t need anything further for now, I must get going to prepare for tomorrow.  I’ll be sending the guard back down, though.”

Aridhel shakes his head.  “No, ma serannas. Nothing more.  Dareth shiral, Felan.”

“Dareth shiral, Ari.” Felan nods to him.  Something in his gut twists at the thought of turning his back to Aridhel now, but he brushes it aside.

  
  


_ “I beg your pardon, Inquisitor?!   _ You can’t be serious.”

Felan sighs, his hands tightening their grip at the curved, worn edges of the war table.  He narrows his eyes back up at Cullen. “You said yourself only moments ago that he seemed a ‘phenomenally skilled’ warrior.  As it stands, his blade met your flesh, and I believe, for morale’s sake, it would be wise if he trained alongside our soldiers as a sign of trust and solidarity.  I do not need bad blood between our soldiers and my sole clansman. I do not need  _ spite  _ or withering looks towards him because of what he did today.  And Aridhel must  _ earn  _ trust from us as much as he is to  _ give it. _  I see no better way.”

Cullen purses his lips, nostrils flaring, and looks to Cassandra as if she'll leap to his defense.

“I must agree with the Inquisitor, Commander.  They trained together growing up, and perhaps it would do well to see and learn a unique fighting style firsthand, similar to Lavellan’s.  It will also help us keep an eye on him. I mean no offence, Inquisitor.” Cassandra gives Felan a slightly apologetic look.

“No, I agree.  Now, Leliana, Josie - A tent would be agreeable to Aridhel for now.  I don’t believe we should release him today, lest we be accused of favouritism.  I also think it would do him some good to sleep in a cell overnight to cool his heels and temper a little longer.  He’s asked for his sword, but I’m going to take it to Harritt for now. Leliana, I’ll let you and Cullen both decide when he should have access to it again after watching him for as long as you deem fit.”  Felan flicks his eyes across the table to Cullen once more. “Practice weapons should be fine until then, Commander.” He smiles sweetly, then dismisses the meeting to prepare his weapons and armour in the undercroft.  As he leaves the sprawling table, he can feel the daggers pointed at the back of his head from Cullen’s frustrated gaze. He can hear about it tonight at their last meeting of the day for all he cares right now.

 

Felan nearly skips down the steps from the landing of the undercroft down to where Harritt is stationed over a workbench.  The cold stone and errant flakes of snow that collect on the steps bite at the skin of his feet so he hurries to where a spare pair of soft suede boots he’s hidden away are and pulls them on, not bothering with the laces.

“I’ve a new toy for you!”  Felan exclaims over the rush of the waterfall, holding out Aridhel’s claymore in both hands.

Harritt laughs, a glint in his eye.  “That right?” 

“Mm.  It belongs to… it belongs to my clansman.” Felan lifts his chin.  “He’s being held here, it’s a... somewhat long story I don’t care to repeat at the moment.”

Harritt takes the sword from him, then grasps his shoulder tight.  “That’s good though, right?”

“It is.” Felan lets out a deep breath, the steam from it billowing out between them.

“I am sorry, for what happened to your people, Felan.  ‘S’damn shame, that…” 

Harritt gives him a long, sad look of concern, but Felan tries to crack a reassuring smile before he lets that emotion take hold. “Thank you, Harritt.  But I’ll be alright… in time.”

Harritt squeezes his shoulder, looking away. “Well, ever forward, aye?  As long as you’re alright, m’boy. And any time you need to hide away, remember I can give you ‘busy work’ your advisors can’t take you away from.  But I’m sure you can find some on yer own here, just fine.” Harritt pats Felan between the shoulder blades and smiles before letting his hand drop.  “Though I can’t say much for the peace and quiet down here with  _ that one,”  _ he yells in Dagna’s direction.

“I  _ heard  _ that!” Dagna’s chipper voice breaks through.

Harritt turns around fully.  “I wouldn’t expect anythin’ less, lovely!”

Felan laughs at them - they get along much less like two territorial mabari and more like an old married couple at this point.

“Oh!  Inquisitor!  You’ve gotta see this!”

Harritt waves Dagna’s excitement away from across the room.  “Oh alright, alright, wait yer turn, you!” He turns back to Felan, more serious.  “Now, this your work, Felan?” The older man points to the hand-carved bone quillons of Aridhel’s sword.

A smile creeps across Felan’s face at Harritt’s easy recognition of his particular brand of craftsmanship. “You know it,” he beams up at him.

“We’ll definitely keep the crossguard and hilt intact then, but the blade needs work.”  He taps at a decent sized hairline crack in the blade near the guard. Felan can only assume Ari hadn’t the time or resources to take care of his claymore like he normally would on his journey to Skyhold.  “I reckon she’s seen better days, mm? If I can’t salvage it with sharpening and polishing, I can forge ‘im a new one. He particular about the metal used?”

Felan tears his eyes away from the ragged, faded blue silk ribbon that’s still wrapped tight around the hilt.  “Uh, yes, actually. He’s partial to the Paragon’s Luster.”

Harritt raises an eyebrow.  “We got better.”

“I know, I know.  Just… keep it the same, alright?  If  _ I  _ hear about it, then  _ you’ll  _ hear about it.” he smirks.

With a chuckle, Harritt relents.  “You got it, m’boy. Now go see what Dagna wants before she causes a cave in with all that howling.” He jerks a thumb back in Dagna’s direction.

Felan saunters over to Dagna, careful not to trip over his boot laces as he kicks up powdery snow from the floor on his way.

_ “My dear, _ what’ve you got for me?  Is it everything I’d hoped and dreamed?” he purrs down at her.  Her blush is made evident when she tilts her strange metal and glass mask up from her face; her red hair plastered in wisps across her forehead and temples.

“And more!”  She puts down her tools and drags a narrow covered crate from behind her work station, and Felan knows better by now than to offer to help her lest he lose a hand.  “Look. At. These beauties!!” Dagna kicks the top off the crate and lifts out two dual-bladed daggers. 

The obsidian shines in its own dark and beautiful way, and it captivates Felan’s attention, drawing it to the four red-amber coloured embellishments along the larger blade ends of each curving dagger.  The curious looking stones are around the size of copper pieces, maybe a bit smaller, and engraved with simple markings - though foreign to Felan. And between each of those, the blades are inlaid with much smaller pale grey stones.

“Oh, Dagna… they’re remarkable!”  

She hands them over with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.  “Try ‘em out! Go ahead, Inquisitor.” Felan tilts his head at her, questioning.  “Uhh… but mayybe over there…” Dagna points over towards the mouth of the undercroft, near a large, sparkling snow drift.  “And you  _ might _ want to put on some gloves.  Just in case.”

Now he’s just worried.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *da'mis = little blade (term of endearment)  
> **da fenlin = little wolf/"wolfling" (also a term of endearment)
> 
> I'm sorry this was another chapter of mostly dialogue, guys! Things should definitely kick off next chapter! No one wanted to shut up this chapter lol.
> 
> ***If anyone is curious, I've added Cole's conversation with Aridhel (and Cullen!) to Un Coup d'œil over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15418992) in Chapter 4 (Part II: The Two of Swords)!
> 
> Your comments and kudos are ever appreciated! :D


	13. Resarcium Cicatrix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"So, I lost my head a while ago,  
>  But you seem to have done no better  
> We set fire in the snow  
> It ain't over, I'm not done  
> Some do magic, and some do harm  
> I'm holding on, holding on  
> I'm holding on to a straw"_
> 
> -Karin Dreijer, _"I'm Not Done"_

  
  


_ The Western Approach - Four weeks later _

  
  


Pain and a throbbing heat lance through his hand.  The anchor flairs and Felan grimaces, gritting his teeth so as not to let out the agonised sound his throat so badly wants to loose.  He doesn’t want to wake Dorian.

It’s been like this - a steady, climbing pain more unnatural than he’s dealt with before - since they broke up the wonderfully horrifying demon-bonding ritual one Magister Erimond was performing with  _ Grey Wardens  _ as his conduits.

They’d felled those poor men and women and the demons magically chained to them, but not before that weaselly piece of horseshit escaped by distraction via doing  _ something  _ to the anchor.

What that something was exactly, well… they still weren’t sure.

Dorian had been the first to panic, falling to his knees beside him.  But once it stopped feeling like pins and needles the size of daggers and knives were being driven through his hand, Felan had brushed him off and directed anyone else still too focused on him to just bloody well  _ fight.   _

For the two days after the rest of his companions had joined them in the Western Approach, Felan forced himself to put up with poking and prodding at the anchor by Solas’s practiced hand.  He’d laced his magic within the mark like an eager hound wriggling into a foxhole with the promise of something to latch his teeth onto. But still, he came up with nothing. Well, nothing except for the fact that the anchor seemed… “louder.”  Whatever the Void that had meant.

He didn’t tell Dorian that tidbit of information, and refused when he’d wanted to use his own magicks to test the murky green waters.  Felan fell back on the excuse that he was sick of being treated like some fractured object and to simply drop it. The two of them had had more pressing things to discuss anyway, like the fact that the fucking demon army that had been foretold in that potential dark future they were both subjected to was quickly becoming quite feasible.  

That quieted Dorian’s fretting up until three days ago when Felan started to wake them both, mark sparking to life with a shock of pain that ran up his entire arm, causing him to cry out with its intensity.  Felan had tried and failed to place the blame on his nightmares - the wound of losing his family still gaping fresh and the guilt twisting the Fade around him as he slept. But of course, the person he was closest to could see right through him like a pane of glass.  After all, his nightmares rarely interfered with the anchor.

Tonight, the pain had grown slow enough to only wake just him, and he had scooted out from beneath the furs, careful not to disturb Dorian.

He sits at the foot of their bedroll, cloak thrown over his shoulders as the cold of the desert night and the pain in his arm makes him shiver.  He thinks about grabbing one of the fire-imbued daggers Dagna had enchanted for him to use as a makeshift source of heat, but it wouldn’t do to accidentally catch their tent on fire.

The anchor flares to life again, this time with a nearly audible  _ crack  _ cutting through the air.  Green light dances with the shadows cast across the walls and pitched ceiling of the tent and Felan quickly wraps his hand in his cloak, tucking it beneath his arm.  The last thing he needs is some patrol guard seeing his little light show from outside.

Bringing his other hand to his mouth, Felan bites down on his knuckles as the pain creeps up his forearm to the rhythm of his elevated pulse.  Slow breaths in and out of his nose do nothing to dull the wave of nausea that’s lovingly chosen to revisit him tonight as well. He tries once more to focus on his breathing, but suddenly the smell of burning silk and a peculiar heat at his right side manifest themselves together.

When the heat grows to that uncomfortable sensation of standing too close to a campfire for far too long, Felan flinches and pulls his left hand from beneath his armpit, noticing immediately the melted fabric covering his ribs in a spot several centimetres around where his palm had rested.  With a furrow in his brow, he looks to his hand. He cannot help the pained gasp he makes.

Tendrils of sickly yellow-green weave up and around his wrist beneath the skin in a similar fashion he’d experienced in the days after Corypheus had manhandled him at Haven.  Only this time, pain emanates from the area, shooting up to his elbow. In his palm, the mark itself glows as it normally would when near a rift, but with one terrifyingly new addition.

Flickers of bright orange undulate within his open hand for a few seconds before turning to swirls of violet light amongst the viridescent glow.  Sudden pain nearly knocks the wind from him and he groans, head tipping to tuck between his drawn-up knees as his vision swims.

“Amatus?”  Dorian’s groggy voice carries him a little ways back to the edge of consciousness enough to have him briefly turn to his lover.  He draws his hand inward to his chest to hide the strange glow, but not before glimpsing that flame-like incandescence disappear in the ball of his fist.  Felan hopes Dorian didn’t notice. 

He is sleep-mussed and beautiful, scooting towards him and letting their furs and blankets fall away despite the bitter chill in the air.  The fact that the man still insists on sleeping bare-chested, when the evening cold is so apparent and offensive to his northern sensibilities, is laughable.  

Dorian reaches out to him with one hand.  “Come here,” he beckons, but sways as if the ground was upended violently.  He catches himself, one arm smacking against the bed roll to steady himself.  Dorian looks a bit wild-eyed, but before Felan can ask if he’s alright, the pain grips him again and he doubles over against his knees.

Warm, gentle arms ease him backwards, pulling off his cloak and shifting the furs over his legs as he’s being nearly dragged to sit between Dorian’s thighs.  Warm arms around him, Dorian’s back supporting his limp weight. The pain has him nearly breathless.

“Are you- are you alright, Dor?” he manages to ask, speech slurred with the dizziness he feels.

Dorian chuckles low. “‘Are you alright,’ asks the elf doubled-over in clear, excruciating pain from his blasted hand.  Oh yes, just feeling a bit weary from trekking through a blighted -  _ literally,  _ mind you - desert for weeks on end.  Fret not though, amatus. I think the sand dunes are doing wonders for my arse and thighs,” he quips, and as if to prove his point, Dorian squeezes his legs against Felan, making him laugh weakly.

A few beats of silence pass before Dorian quietly asks him, “Now more importantly, what about you?  Why didn’t you wake me?” 

Felan sighs and Dorian’s mouth comes to rest in the curve of his neck and shoulder.  “You should be sleeping,” is his only answer.

_ “Oh,  _ have you suddenly the stamina of a thousand wild halla since we spoke before bed and don’t need rest yourself?  Because if so, I’ve more than a few uses for that kind of…  _ alertness.   _ But last I checked, that damned mark on your hand has been waking you worse than your nightmares.”

Dorian carefully grasps Felan’s wrist and pulls his hand away from his chest.  He begins to ease open his fist, but Felan winces. “Please… Dorian, please - I don’t know what’s happening to me.  There’s something wrong with the anchor.”

As if on cue, flashes of green ignite in his palm and the searing agony begins anew.  Felan cries out as Dorian holds him, fingers reaching up to brush through his hair. He feels too hot and positively frigid all at once; like he wants to crawl out of his skin and lie upon the cool give of the sand outside.

_ “Shh, sh-sh-shh.  _  I’ve got you, Fae.  I’ve got you.”

Felan folds in two, left arm outstretched in Dorian’s hands, and he’s nearly sobbing from the pain and uneasy fear that’s beginning to churn inside his gut.  His eyes close tight and he tries to focus on the lesser pain of biting the knuckles of his right hand again.

“My lord?!” A quiet, but urgent voice.  Felan doesn’t quite have the energy he’d need to expend to open his eyes to the intruder.

“Oh, Andraste’s arse!” He hears Dorian growl.  “I’m sure you’re a lovely young man, but if you don’t leave us be, I might feel compelled to set that hideous scarf ablaze.  Go.  _ Now.   _ And don’t you  _ dare  _ speak a word of this to  _ anyone.  _  Is.that.understood?”  Dorian’s vehemence brooks no argument.

Felan opens his eyes and the vague shape of an Inquisition scout’s head and shoulders blur into his vision from the direction of their tent flap.

“But is… Is the Inquisitor going to be al-”

Flames coalesce in Dorian’s hand and the scout tears away with a hurried, “Yes ser!”

Normally, he appreciates Dorian’s protective spirit, but Felan also does not want his snarling vigilance to stir up more cause for alarm amongst his soldiers.  

The tide of pain flowing up through his hand and arm seems to have reached its ebb.  He leans back against Dorian’s warmth as hands carefully massage at the muscles in his forearm.

“He was only concerned, ma vhenan.  But your chivalry is duly noted and treasured.” Felan groans as he shifts his weight in an attempt at comfort.  The muscles in his arm cramp and spasm beneath Dorian’s slender fingers.

Dorian huffs.  “As it should be.  You know, I blame  _ you.”  _ Felan turns and gives him a quizzical look. “Oh, yes.  Day after day, I find I’m oft having arguments with myself over whether or not your influence over me is causing me to change for the better or not.”

Felan laughs through a wince as the pain comes back, but with a much duller throb.   _ “My  _ influence over  _ you?   _ This is new.  Here I was under the assumption you were supposed to be fretting over how people would perceive your influence over  _ me.” _

Fingers trail along the thin skin at the inside of his forearm, over his pulse, ghosting over his palm.  Dorian laces their fingers together briefly before restarting the light, massaging touch. If not the pain, it was at least calming Felan’s mind.  “Hm. Haven’t you heard? A handsome, heroic Dalish elf has me wrapped around his little finger… Fae, may I try something?” Dorian asks. “With my magic.  If it doesn’t work, I’ll stop trying. And if it causes you any increased pain or discomfort, say the word, and I’ll stop immediately.”

Felan lets out a frustrated sigh.  He knows Dorian’s inquisitive nature, but he doesn’t much feel like helping sate his lover’s curiosity over what was ailing him by setting himself up for more useless and uncomfortable magical experimentation.

“Dorian, it was unnerving enough when Solas did it, and I’ve told you -  _ he’s  _ told you, there isn’t anything different to be found.”

“No, I don’t want to needle the mark, amatus.  I’ve an idea that may work to soothe what you’re feeling.” Dorian kisses him lightly beneath the ear.  “May I try?” He tangles their fingers together once more. Felan can feel the faint thrum of magic between their palms; a strange, umbilical give and take.

Nodding, Felan tells him, “You can, but if-”

Dorian noses at his jaw.  “Just say the word.” 

Beginning at the crook of his elbow, Dorian ghosts ice-cold fingers down towards Felan’s wrist, using his thumbs to press into the cramping muscles of his palm, wary of the anchor’s scar.  He works for a couple minutes before suddenly changing the magical touch of his fingers and hands to heat, and it makes Felan tingle all over while his muscles seem to loosen and ease in their tension.  

Felan can almost  _ feel  _ the anchor glowing, despite barely a hint of light emanating from it now.  He closes his eyes and leans his head back on Dorian’s shoulder, sinking into his arms; his entire body giving into the sensations.

“Better?” Dorian asks quietly.

“I think so.” Felan practically shivers when hoarfrost melts against his skin again and he bites his lip after letting out a shaky exhale.  To be quite frank, Dorian using his magic like this is all too reminiscent of when he’s used it on him in a more…  _ intimate  _ setting.  Though Dorian may be quelling the angry fire of agony that had been lancing through his arm, he is doing nothing but stoking the one currently coursing through his veins.

And it’s definitely doing wonders on taking his mind off things.

He opens his heavy eyelids and grabs Dorian’s right hand, pausing until the bluish glow of wintry magic recedes from his caramel skin.  The feelings of failure  _ \- of potential failure -  _ to the many lives that could, and will likely soon be lost under his name in the siege to come… Felan doesn’t want to think about it in this moment.  Personal loss and confusion, weighing so crushingly heavy upon his entire being - the pain, internal and external, that he’s been dealing with for weeks on end; he wants Dorian to help him forget about it all for now.

Felan brings Dorian’s hand to his mouth, kissing each finger.  He feels the magic coursing through Dorian’s other hand become a distant hum against his arm.  

“Distract me, Dorian,” he says, pressing Dorian’s palm flat against his chest, over his heart.  Dorian’s fingers bunch in smooth fabric.

Lips against his ear, dragging teasingly.  “Am I not doing a good enough job of it already?”  He can hear the smile in Dorian’s words, picture his salacious, lopsided grin without having to turn his head to verify.

He guides Dorian’s hand down his stomach, towards the hem of his shirt then beneath the silk.  Dorian, the apt pupil that he boasts to be, trails ice across his abs when Felan pulls his hand away to finger the ties of his breeches.  His body quakes involuntarily. “You could do better, and we both know it,” he snarks, though his voice has gone hoarse, and it earns him a nip to the jaw.

They’ve not had time alone together since leaving Skyhold weeks ago, and Creators, does he miss Dorian’s touch.  He misses the intimacy of just being in this man’s company without the outside world invading upon their shared space, the comfort and calm it always brings him.

He curls fingers into laces, and they loosen with an easy pluck or two while Dorian plays upon his skin like a harp.  Soon, they shed layers keeping them from skin against skin. Dorian’s body is immeasurably hot compared to the chill air.

Dorian doesn’t notice the burned hole through Felan’s shirt, and Felan blessedly forgets all about it.

Dorian pulls him in, wrapping him in his arms, and Felan kisses him slow and lazy, giving into that warm thrall.  The pain he feels is a mere echo now, not completely forgotten for each throbbing reminder when he moves. He wants all the pleasure Dorian can give him, all the love he doesn’t dare profess vocally.  

Even in the smaller stolen moments such as this, his love is apparent.  It’s in the way Dorian cards his hands back through Felan’s white fringe; the way those same hands, gentle and sure, grasp his hips and steady him as he sits astride one of Dorian’s thighs, slotting together their aching hardness.  As their breaths turn to hushed pants, Dorian’s adorations are betrayed in the ways his fingers linger on pale scars and flowing, terracotta tattoos between their dance onto smoother, unmarked skin - but Dorian’s touch remains ever more indelible. 

Felan rocks his hips back and forth along Dorian’s with a slow drag at first, his cock gliding slick in Dorian’s hand from a convenient, if not odd, nature spell.  They both groan when Dorian cups their hardened lengths together atop his stomach, giving increasingly rapid pumps with the flick of his wrist between their thrusting.  Felan holds himself up, hovering more closely over his lover, then claws his hand down his own stomach as Dorian watches him move above him. He knows Dorian’s human eyesight can’t make out the pink trails he leaves upon his skin, despite the low lantern light emanating from one corner of the tent, but it’s enough to goad Dorian to appreciatively feel his way down the raised path Felan makes with his nails.

Dorian is all fluttering eyelids and whispers of Felan’s name as he tries to keep quiet.  And all Felan can do is fold forward, rutting his hips harder and quicker; biting into Dorian’s shoulder to muffle his own needy sounds as he chases his peak.

Caging Dorian’s head with his arms, Felan tangles his hand in his inky hair, gripping and pulling tight - the other clenching fingerfuls of soft sand where their blankets don’t quite cover the ground.  The coil in his lower belly is winding to near snapping all too soon; the build dizzying. Dorian’s free hand grasps Felan’s hipbone tightly, and a low moan leaves his chest the moment before his hips begin a stuttered buck upward.  The bit of extra slickness from Dorian’s warm spend has Felan coming undone soon after, pressing his cheek against Dorian’s, mouth close to his ear to sigh and moan the sound of his release as he comes across his stomach.

They lie there, catching their breath through intermittent, exhausted laughs.  Felan kisses a sleepy trail along Dorian’s collarbone, tasting the thin sheen of sweat along the way.  Before he tries to move to help clean the both of them off, Dorian nudges Felan’s temple with his nose and captures his mouth with a passionate kiss when he tilts his face upwards.

The moment unspools around them quietly, and that’s when Felan feels something…  _ peculiar  _ in his left hand.  “Dorian… hold- hold on a moment.” He breaks from the kiss and sits up a little ways, noting the stickiness of his own stomach now.

Dorian throws up a couple orange-yellow twinkling mage lights into the air, enough to illuminate the tent slightly better.  It casts light more fully on the bits of  _ molten sand _ where Felan’s left hand had been moments ago.

Felan gasps when he stares at his palm, the mark seemingly dormant, its green luminescence replaced by small coals of glass-like rocks still aglow as they continue to melt in Felan’s hand.  “Dorian… what’s happening?”

He flicks his eyes over to look at Dorian, but the man says nothing, staring awestruck at Felan’s open hand.

There’s a small flicker of flame, and Felan drops the smouldering sand, shaking his hand out, but the searing pain of a burn is queerly absent.  Felan quickly reaches for his shirt to tamp down the still hot embers of sand as they begins burning tiny holes in the blankets.

“Felan!  What are you- that’s  _ silk,  _ you know!” Dorian hisses.

Felan glares over at him.   _ “That’s  _ what you’re worried- _ nevermind.  _  It was… already burnt, anyway...”  He hurriedly wipes them both off and Dorian snatches the shirt from his grasp to wipe his own messy hand off, all the while gaping at Felan.

“What do you mean, already burnt?  Fae… Did the  _ anchor  _ do that??” He tosses the ruined shirt to the side, carelessly.  

Honestly, it felt nothing like the anchor.  He hadn’t realised anything out of the ordinary was happening when he… when they were…  _ well.   _ He’d also not realised his…  _ hand  _ was burning a hole into his shirt until it was too late earlier, either.  Nothing is making sense, and it terrifies him. He feels his tenuous grip on reality slipping away, the suffocating emotional turmoil he's been dealing with wholly overwhelming him. 

Felan’s voice shakes, quiet and small and hesitant.  “I-I don’t know. Earlier I think I saw…  _ Fenedhis…  _ Dorian, I think there is something  _ very  _ wrong with the anchor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Fae, he's going a bit mad, isn't he?
> 
> And yikes, so sorry for the delay guys!! I had so much shit come up these passed couple months, and my physical health hasn't been the most cooperative. I've got a lot of writing things on my plate currently, two of which are high priority for fandom stuff I'm participating in, but I'm also making Firebreather a top priority because I truly missed this fic and my dearest Felan, believe me! So yeah... no more two month gaps between updates!
> 
> And if anyone is curious, Aridhel now has his own companion fic in this series! It's called Lionsong and you can read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17206088/chapters/40458632). It will mostly be running parallel to Firebreather and I'm going to try my damnedest to not have any events within that fic be necessary reading for this one. Besides, it'll mostly be a view from Aridhel and Cullen's POV and their interactions with one another while events in Firebreather unfold.
> 
> Endless thanks go out to those still sticking with me<3


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